For Ever Kneel'd
by Almyra
Summary: After being wounded during his Northern campaign, Peter faces peril, temptation, and a great threat to Narnia. Susan, Edmund, and Lucy must find him before it is too late. Post Horse and His Boy.
1. Prologue Coniectura

**Disclaimer:** Nope, I don't own 'em, so don't sue. I just enjoy playing in Lewis's sandbox from time to time - it's big enough for all.  
**AN:** Latin, coniectura means roughly a guess, conjecture, inference; interpretation of dreams and omens, divination. I'm no Latin expert, so I apologize in advance for incorrect tense, etc...

_A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd  
To a lady in his shield,  
That sparkled on the yellow field,  
Beside remote Shalott_  
Alfred Lord Tennyson, _The Lady of Shalott_, lines 78-81

**For Ever Kneel'd**

_Prologue - Coniectura_

_It was time. Perhaps the moment for which she had waited longer than she could tell. Time passed so slowly here, in her place of confinement. She rose gracefully from her seat and crossed to the opposite side of the room, where she stood for a moment contemplating a tall, shrouded object. "My preparations are complete," she whispered, reaching out and grasping the silken cloth, "May this be the hour." She gave the shroud a gentle tug, and it slid free with a hushed murmur, a sibilant sigh, folding in upon itself again and again until it lay at her feet. She did not notice, for her attention was fixed on the sight before her, her eyes rapt and shining. Slowly, a small smile of joy crept across her lips, and she raised a hand, her fingertips slowly, reverently brushing across the likeness of a noble face, a blood-red tabard. Yes. **Yes**. It was time._


	2. Blooded

**Disclaimer: **No, I don't even own a few acres of Narnian land, much to my chagrin. sigh  
**AN:** You may picture a 25-7 year old Peter however you like (blush), whether that be a grown-up William Moseley or someone else entirely. _Anyone_ but that fluffier version of the Burger King King at the end of the movie (no disrespect to Noah Huntley intended – it wasn't his fault). _shudder_  
Also, any medical mistakes or ridiculous blunders are entirely my fault...

* * *

**I**. _Blooded_

Afterwards, everyone said it was a miracle he had survived. Around the camp and cook fires that evening, the Narnian soldiers spoke of nothing else, and each conversation, each description of the event, focused on his bravery, his courage, and his skill in battle. The giant had gotten in a lucky hit, everyone agreed, and they knew their High King would soon return to good health and lead them again to victory.

No news came, however, as the night wore onward – no tidings were brought of a miraculous recovery or an improving condition. In the chief hospital tent, myriad lanterns burned away the darkness but brought no relief, either to the suffering monarch or the physicians who tended to him. A small crowd of commanders, aides-de-camp, and messengers, who had come from battle as soon as they could, gathered restlessly around a fire pit outside. Only occasionally did hushed, terse conversations break periods of tense silence, as those assembled told anxious newcomers what had transpired earlier in the day, with gaps filled by the medical staff that had been present. It was almost too horrible for words.

* * *

_Members of the royal guard brought their king from the last catastrophic attack, bearing him on their shoulders in a hastily contrived litter. The chief physician, an Archenlander by the name of Tristam, surveyed the damage before him and called loudly for the mail cutters. The High King had been at the forefront of the charge, the royal guard told Tristam, who gently straightened the young man's splayed limbs as he listened. His majesty had single-handedly brought down the first of the giants, the most fearsome, but had been wounded immediately after. _

_A dwarf handed Tristam the cutters then, and the physician began to carefully snip through the mangled hauberk. The guard continued, very nearly babbling with disbelief. Another smaller giant, unseen behind the first, had then struck his royal highness directly in the chest with his war club, knocking the king from his charger and very nearly crushing him. The attack had failed, and the army had been driven back from the gains they had made the day before. Unimaginable disaster, for the High King Peter, as a general rule, did not lose. _

_It took longer than he would have liked, as he had to move very cautiously, but Tristam finally removed the ruin of armor and underlying clothing. He was momentarily relieved to see only myriad bruises marring the young man's muscular torso and chest, huge and black, crisping corpse-blue and sickly greenish-yellow at the edges. No sucking chest wounds or impaled objects – a good way to start, if one had to, but the danger was still very real. The High King's lifeblood could be pouring out unseen inside and no one would ever know until he died. _

_Being in a campaign against giants had taught Tristam many things about injuries of this nature, although he had hoped to avoid using his knowledge to treat his commander and ruler. He saw immediately that most of the ribs had been broken in several places, and some on the right side had even separated, causing a small section to move oddly with Peter's breathing. He had initially been unconscious, but as Tristam and the aides began working to stabilize his injuries, pale eyelids fluttered, and the young warrior came around with a hoarse scream. _

_There were no words in his cries, but Tristam did not need them to understand his patient was in shock and half out of his mind with agony. He directed two aides to hold his king still while they worked, and though Peter fought them weakly, he had been soon defeated. "Your highness," Tristam said as calmly and as authoritatively as he could, and Peter's sky blue eyes struggled to focus on his face. "I know you are in great pain, but you must be as still as you can or you could further endanger your life." The High King nodded – oh, so slightly, blood trickling down his chin from the lip he was nearly biting through. "Mum…mother – please…" he managed thickly, and then his eyes rolled back into his head as oblivion claimed him once more._

* * *

Now, in the interminable early hours of the morning, with his back aching and his hands shaking with exhaustion, hardly aware of the dirt, sweat, and blood, Tristam stood at the king's bedside, watching Peter carefully. The young man was sleeping fitfully, having been given a dose of opium – precious stuff from Calormen and rare indeed up in these bleak Northern lands. He hated to use it, but keeping the High King relaxed and calm, thereby allowing his breathing to be as normal as possible, was imperative. The physician rubbed his chin, his fingertips scraping over at least three days' growth of beard. If he could just keep pneumonia at bay – a task indeed in wet, cold country such as this – there might be a chance of survival.

A rustle of cloth made him look up, a scowl on his lips. He had sent the aides to tend to the other wounded and given notice that the High King was resting and not to be disturbed. Ducking through the tent entrance, however, was Peter's valet, a faun named Palomnus who had accompanied his king to the front lines, much to the latter's initial consternation. He was graying and slightly on the stout side, but his face was honest and usually merry, and to Tristam's mind, his attentive service and quick wit gave the High King a much needed respite from the relentless warfare he waged. The faun had come as soon as he had been notified of the injury, and his presence had also served to bring some measure of peace. Semi-conscious, Peter had clung to his valet's hand like a man being rescued from drowning. Which, the physician thought, perhaps he was.

"How is he?" Palomnus asked quietly, coming to stand beside Tristam with a small wooden tray in his hands.

"Unchanged," Tristam replied, glancing at the small loaves of camp bread and the battered tin cups of dark, viscous juice. "He certainly is in no condition to eat."

The faun gave him a quizzical look and then almost smiled. "I brought this for you, sir. And for me. I know my lord would not begrudge me a bite or two while he is beyond such comforts. Wouldn't want another patient on your hands, now, would we?"

"What's one more?" the physician asked rather bitterly, but he pulled over two camp chairs and took his bread and cup. As simple and rough as it was, the smell of the bread made his stomach unexpectedly churn with hunger, and he wondered briefly how long he had gone without food.

"Eat slowly, and it will taste better," the faun said, eyeing the huge chunk of bread Tristam tore off and swallowed almost without chewing. He received a stony glare in return and amusement quirked his lips. "His highness regularly gives me such looks upon receiving my good advice, and yet such truculence does him no good, for I continue to give it," he said, his pointed beard bobbing as he carefully ate his own loaf. "He has not learned yet."

Tristam raised his eyes to the figure lying beside him, covered to his chin with a light woolen blanket, sweat-matted blond hair snarled and tangled, face bruised and lacerated, eyes sunken and blackened. The physician felt his heart constrict painfully. This was his sovereign – adopted, yes, but he had sworn an oath and owed none other his fealty and allegiance. His responsibility was to ensure that Narnia did not lose her High King and its three other monarchs, their brother. The chill dampness of the air and ground suddenly seemed to creep into his very marrow, and he fancied he heard already the rasp of labored breathing, saw a tinge of blue painting split lips, the fatal flush of fever creeping over pale flesh. Tristam slowly lowered his cup and bent closer to the cot.

Palomnus watched him sharply. "Is something amiss?" he asked intently.

The Archenlander sat back again in his camp chair as if he had come to a decision and drank deeply. "No," he said when he had finished, "but the High King cannot stay here. He must be sent back to Cair Paravel, out of this chill and dank wetness, back to warmth and…" he paused, "…to the Queen Lucy and her cordial."

"He has given strict orders," Palomnus said, "You know this – he would not wish to leave his army leaderless, and he would not desire the cordial for himself."

"He very well may leave his country leaderless for eternity if he sickens with pneumonia," Tristam replied harshly, "The rigors of the journey to my mind carry far less risk than lingering here – and what if our positions are overrun? Nothing will save him then, Palomnus."

"Aslan might," the faun said quietly, meeting and holding the physician's gaze. Tristam's expression darkened.

"Aye, indeed, Aslan might," he said, "and he might not. We cannot – we _must_ not – leave this to chance, Palomnus. You of anyone know what the High King means to his people." He became reckless with intensity. "If Narnia were to lose him, she would be no better off than she was under the Witch."

"You forget yourself, sir," Palomnus said angrily, spitting out the words, his ruddy face coloring, "I will remind you: Narnia has _four_ monarchs, _two_ kings and _two_ queens; all bound by blood and crowned by the Lion. Your words skate close to the edge, Tristam, and if his highness Peter were able to hear and understand, you would soon see what his _family_ means to _him_!"

The faun had half risen from his chair, and Tristam abruptly held up his hands. "I spoke in haste, good Palomnus. You are right – I say again, my thoughts were only for his majesty. Forgive my rash words."

Palomnus gave a small snort, his mouth compressed in a severe frown. "We are all weary and sick at heart," he said, "but this is no excuse. We must do what is best – for my lord and for Narnia."

"Agreed," the physician returned, "and as I said, the High King _must_ return to Cair Paravel. It is not his only chance, but it is his strongest. I tell you truly, Palomnus, I will not have his blood on my hands. Not while there is breath left in my body and a way to save him."

The valet stood and moved to Peter's side. The young man's face was contorted slightly with pain that invaded even his drugged sleep, and his splinted chest rose and fell shallowly, unevenly beneath the blanket. Palomnus tenderly brushed a lock of hair from the king's forehead and rested a roughened palm against his cheek. "By the gracious will of Aslan, this boy and his brother and sisters delivered us from the greatest, cruelest tyrant Narnia has ever known. You and I are not the only ones who love him, Tristam. We must confer with the other commanders, seek Aslan's will, and decide his fate."

He gave the physician one last glance, gathered the tray and cups, and left the tent.


	3. Ill Tidings

**Disclaimer:** No, I don't own any of this. If I did, I wouldn't have time to write and daydream about it.

* * *

**II**. _Ill Tidings_

His stomach comfortably full of luncheon meats and a glass or two of wine, King Edmund the Just yawned contentedly, slouching down in the brocaded chair and stretching his lanky legs and booted feet out towards the empty fireplace. The air was deliciously warm and sleepy, and Edmund drowsily wondered if he could get away with taking a short nap. No one else was in the great library at the moment, no one knew where he was, and he had no obligations for the next half hour. He let his head fall back against the back of the chair and carefully placed the open book he was reading over his face, balancing the crease between the pages over his nose. Perfect.

Blissful darkness was creeping over his consciousness when the sound of the library doors slamming open echoed in the room like an explosion. Edmund jumped, the book falling heavily into his lap, and swiveled to face the intruder, a harsh rebuke rising to his lips. He stopped short when he saw his sister Lucy, and his heart leaped into his throat at the sight of her face. She was as white as paper, and her body visibly trembled. "Edmund!" she said, "Thank Aslan! Please, you must come quickly. Stormcloud is making his approach, and oh," she paused, anguish in her voice, "oh, Edmund, _he bears a black banner!_"

The young king stared at her a moment, trying to understand the enormity of her words, and then he rose from his chair, sudden terror constricting his chest so tightly he had trouble drawing breath. "You're certain?" he asked, going to Lucy's side.

She looked up at him, and the misery in her gaze made him feel momentarily foolish for asking the question. There was no way she could have been mistaken. While Peter was at war, each of his siblings carried with them the awful fear of one day seeing such a sight – a harbinger of terrible news. "Where is Stormcloud?" he asked as they both left the library almost at a run.

"Coming to the north tower," Lucy responded, "I've sent for Susan. Oh, Ed, you don't suppose…" she trailed off, not willing to utter the horrible thought.

Edmund found her hand and squeezed it. "May Aslan grant us the strength to bear what we must. Have courage, Lu."

A sense of deep foreboding seemed to have fallen over the castle, and courtiers and servants took one glance at the expressions on their majesties' faces and stepped quietly aside as they hurried past. No one stopped them or questioned their frenetic pace through the halls and across the courtyard. Susan met them at the foot of the tower stairs, a small group of her handmaidens with her. She was breathless and disheveled, her gardening shift was stained with dirt, and a trowel was still clenched in her hand.

"Has the hour of my nightmares come at last?" she asked quietly, and Lucy went to her, drawing her close. They embraced for several moments, and then Susan nodded brusquely, motioning for her servants to stay behind. With Edmund leading the way, the three sovereigns swiftly ascended the tower, and they soon burst into the bright sunlight at the top.

The king's eyes immediately scanned the blue sky, searching for the eagle bringing them news. His gaze came to rest upon the empty pole towering above them, bereft of the huge red flag with its lion rampant, the symbol of the High King in residence. He knew three other flags flew one each from the next largest towers, the ones facing south, west, and east. Golden, forest green, and deep blue, they carried the royal crests of he and his sisters and showed the world who was currently dwelling at the Cair. At that moment, Edmund knew he would gladly strike his colors forever only to have Peter's flag flying above his head once more. He was doubtful of ever seeing it there again.

There came a sudden rush of wings overhead, and Stormcloud, swiftest of all the High King's messengers and canniest of all his scouts, circled the tower and landed precisely, but with a great deal of flapping, on his perch. Edmund closed his eyes against the sight of the fluttering banner clutched in the eagle's sharp talons, and Susan uttered a soft wail of despair. It was one thing to know and another thing entirely to see Lucy's news had been truth. Their brother was injured grievously, if not worse. Edmund couldn't bring himself to think it any more than Lucy could have said it.

"Greetings to you, lord of eagles," he said, straightening his back and stepping forward, "I see you bring us ill tidings."

Stormcloud dipped his head in what passed for a bow and turned his head to fix one yellow eye upon the young man. "Your highnesses," he said, "Do not be without hope. Truly, the sign I bear," the banner was raised and held towards Edmund, who took it, his heart hammering, "bespeaks unfortunate circumstances." Lucy and Susan slipped their arms around each other's waists and stood resolutely, waiting to hear the words they dreaded. "The High King has been gravely wounded. He is still among the living, so be glad of heart, but know it may not be for long."

A palpable sigh of relief went up from the three, and Susan sagged visibly in Lucy's grasp, her face gray. The younger queen's eyes were bright with unshed tears as she whispered, "Aslan be praised."

Edmund felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders. Peter wounded was indeed bad, but Aslan willing, they could _do_ something about it – death was finality itself. "Please continue," he said, "and tell us what has happened. I feared he had been killed."

Stormcloud preened, polishing his cruel beak against his glossy feathers before turning back to Edmund. "His royal highness was nearly crushed in a failed attack that resulted in terrible losses for us. The physicians were able to keep him breathing, but he has remained sedated by their orders – both to keep the pain at bay and to ensure the proper knitting of his bones." Susan gasped, her hand over her mouth, and Lucy buried her head in her sister's shoulder. Edmund said nothing but looked steadily at the messenger, his brown eyes fierce.

"Lords Emroth and Ariad held council with the other knights and Tristam, who insisted that the High King must be return here in order to be healed by your majesty," a nod towards Lucy, "as the dampness of the North country is no place for one so wounded."

"We must go to him!" Lucy exclaimed, "The journey would take but two or three days hard riding, Edmund; you _know_ we could make such speed! I shall notify Lord Peridan and then the stables to have our horses made ready." She made towards the tower stairs, but Stormcloud's gravelly voice stopped her.

"The decision has been made to send him home by sea," he said, "Tristam feels time is of the essence, and the winds are favorable. As I set out on my own journey, his majesty was being made as comfortable as possible aboard the _Indefatigable_. You should expect him within the week, and I will keep you abreast of his progress."

"What of the dampness of the sea?" asked Susan sharply, "Have they any intelligence among them whatsoever? Those foolish men, they have sent him to his death!" She took a step forward, her eyes dark and piercing.

Edmund placed a soothing hand on her shoulder. "Peace, sister," he said, "Sending him jolting over rough roads would be no better. It sounds as though the decision has already been made, at any rate. Peter is on his way home now; here, to the Cair."

He turned back to the eagle and inclined his head, his silver crown sparkling and flashing in the sunlight. "You have our sincere thanks, good Stormcloud," he said, "You have our permission to withdraw – seek food and rest in the aerie, for you have earned it. My only request is to see you before you return, to carry a message to King Peter and those with him. May the wind prove steady beneath your wings."

"And see you safely to your journey's end," Stormcloud responded, finishing the traditional farewell, and, giving a final bow, he spread his great wings and flew from the tower.

Edmund watched him go and then looked at his sisters. "We must tell the court," he said, "Susan, would you call for an assembly? We will speak to those gathered on the hour."

Susan shook her head in acquiescence, "Certainly, Edmund." She glanced down at her muddied shift and made a small sound of distress. "I am in quite a state, aren't I?"

"There will be time for you to change," Lucy said, clearly ready to be off, "Come, I will help you with the arrangements and your toilette." She glanced back at her brother, who stood braced against the battlements, gazing out to sea. "What will you be doing, Ed?" she asked.

He met her deep blue eyes, so like Peter's. "Praying," he said succinctly. "If you need me, you know where to find me." Lucy smiled, tentatively, and the two queens left the tower with Edmund following slowly not long after.


	4. In Memoriam

**Disclaimer:** No, I don't own Peter or Edmund or Cair Paravel. Wish I did, though. _sigh_  
**AN:** I tried something a little different in this chapter, and I hope it works. The litany of Aslan is meant to convey venerated tradition – Peter and Edmund have been kings for probably 11-13 years at this point (give or take a few), and they have observed this ritual many, many times. They insisted on leaving nothing out. Who am I to refuse? And don't worry, there's more Peter in the next chapter...

**III**. _In Memoriam_

It did not take the young king long to reach his destination. The duskiness of the Cair's chapel and the faint scent of candle smoke and exotic spices always made Edmund feel as though he was in another world – one of silence and contemplation, of meditation and reverence. The room was long and rectangular, with a high, carved roof and several golden lanterns depending from it on long, cleverly worked chains. Colorful tapestries depicting the fall of the White Witch and the triumph of Aslan hung every few feet to each side, and several intricate wooden benches sat along the walls, leading to a raised dais at the front. Two tall candelabras flanked an arched window above the dais, which allowed the sunlight to stream in during the morning. The room faced east, looking towards Aslan's country, and Lucy had chosen it for that reason as much as its simple beauty. She had been most insistent on Cair Paravel having a chapel. "Every king, queen, or noble knight needs a place to go and pray," she had said firmly, and that was that.

Edmund made his way slowly to the front and knelt in his accustomed spot, placing his hands upon his knees. Had it really been four months since he and Peter had been there in the chapel together, as the High King prepared for his journey North? The younger king remembered well their conversation that evening, their confidence of a hard-fought but ultimate victory, and the army's subsequent departure the next morning with trumpets and pipes skirling, banners flying, and sunlight sparkling off of polished armor and weaponry. Edmund always felt a thrill of pride watching Peter ride off to war, so straight and proud on his warhorse, even though they both knew well the danger and the horror of battle. Only four months. Time certainly had a way of slipping away, the king thought, letting his memories carry him back.

_Interlude – Auspicium – Four Months Prior__  
A dusty bottle of the best syrah held carefully by its neck in one hand, a small loaf of crusty bread tucked under the other arm, and fingers twining the stems of two wine goblets, Edmund pried open the chapel door with a foot and shouldered his way inside. He knew he had no hope of beating his brother there, for Peter made it a habit to spend a great deal of time in prayer and contemplation before setting out on a campaign. Indeed, as he entered the solemn dimness, he saw the High King down on one knee; his sword balanced on its point before him, a calloused hand wrapped around its grip. Peter's voice carried to him as a muted murmur – it appeared he had already started the litany of Aslan and was about halfway through. Edmund grinned. He had come at just the right time. _

_The younger king made his way towards the dais, his soft leather half boots making no sound in the luxurious carpeting. He set the wine bottle, bread, and glasses on one of the benches and cleared his throat softly into a balled fist. At the sound, Peter broke off in mid-sentence and then turned, and a smile crossed his face as he stood and sheathed his sword. "Good to see you, Ed," he said, clasping arms with his brother, "Didn't know what was taking you so long, so I started without you." _

_Edmund rolled his eyes. "Thank Master Rowbothom for that," he said, and Peter chuckled. "He wouldn't let me out of the bottlery – kept yammering at me about the virtues of some odd new grape over this other old grape, and wouldn't I like to try the latest of the Calormene reds – here, take a bottle of the verdeaux, and how about the prospects for a good harvest this year?" He took a corkscrew from the pouch on his belt and set to work peeling wax off the mouth of the bottle. "I mean, I'm all for a good glass of wine, but honestly! All in moderation!"_

_Peter laughed again and sat down beside Edmund on the bench, a devilish twinkle in his sky blue eyes. "Rowbothom is a corker all right," he said, lips twitching as he struggled to keep a straight face. The king's hands abruptly stopped opening the wine, and the look he shot his brother was full of pure long-suffering venom. "You promised, Peter," he said reproachfully._

"_I did," Peter said without a trace of repentance in his voice, "But what is a promise if one cannot break it from time to time?"_

"_Empty words," responded Edmund, setting to work on the wax once more. _

"_Never fear, brother, I won't subject the giants to my horrible word-play."_

"_I would advise instead subjecting them to your considerably superior sword-play," the younger king said as the last of the wax came free. Silence fell for a moment as the two traded a long look, the seriousness of the upcoming campaign intruding on their good humor. _

_Peter took up a wine glass and held it out. "I intend to," he said, and the undercurrent of steel in his tone made Edmund give him a quick glance. He poured out the syrah and recorked the bottle, replacing it on the bench. "I wish you would change your mind," he said quietly. "I've almost a mind to disguise myself as a lowly squire and come anyway."_

"_And then be sent packing in disgrace when you were found out." the High King responded, "Ed, we've been over this countless times, and I grow very weary of discussing it. Believe it or not, I am able to look after myself on campaign." _

_The younger king snorted, a skeptical expression on his face. "Couldn't prove it by me," he said, burying his nose in the opening of his glass. _

_Peter sighed. "Let me ask you a question. Do you trust Rabadash?"_

_Edmund looked up sharply. "What?" he asked._

"_Do you trust Rabadash? The flouncy Calormene prince who has come courting Susan. You remember her, our sister?" _

_Edmund put a finger to his lip and looked vapidly confused. "Sister?" he asked in a cracking falsetto, "We have a sister?"_

_Peter raised an eyebrow sternly, and his brother shot him an irritated glare. "What kind of a question is that? Of course I don't trust him."_

"_Then you've just made my point," the older king said, "I won't have Susan visiting Rabadash alone, Ed. Sending Lucy wouldn't be enough to protect her, not in Calormen itself, and I think you know that just as well as I do, if you'd stop being ridiculous long enough to listen to yourself. If it helps, consider yourself her bodyguard, for you're not meant to be her chaperone." He chuckled to himself and swirled the wine in his glass before lifting it to his lips. "Good choice with this, by the way."_

_Edmund stared at the deep violet liquid in his own glass and tasted defeat. He knew Peter was right and that a king of Narnia should escort its beautiful queen as she visited her suitor in his own country, never mind he was also her brother and bore responsibility there as well. As he considered it further, he suddenly felt he was meant to go with Susan. It would be the pinnacle of foolishness to let her go alone. _

_The High King eyed his brother, seeing the resignation in his face, and blew out a short breath. "Edmund, please believe me. I would rather have you along on this campaign than anyone else. Your gift for strategy and your trustworthy council astounds me, and while I know the plans we've drawn up will work, I still would rather have you by my side. There's no one else I trust as much to guard my back." _

_The younger king looked up again, and his eyes were burning. Peter smiled. "But I have sworn to protect my kingdom and my family. I need you to be with our gentle sister and keep her – and through her, Narnia – from harm."_

"_I understand," Edmund replied, "and I am willing. I just wish all these things had come at different times – or that I could be in two places at once."_

"_We must do our best with what Aslan gives us," Peter said, standing and returning to the dais. "Come, let us to prayer. There is much to be done before the dawn."_

_Edmund joined him with the wine and bread, breaking the loaf into two smaller pieces and refilling their glasses. As was their custom, they drew their swords and lay them down, hilts just between their knees, points facing the eastern window. They took their bread and wine and held it up, bowing their heads, golden brown and almost black, their crowns glinting in the lamplight. As was his right and duty, Peter began._

"Mighty Aslan, Great Lion, protector and defender, Highest of all High Kings, we beseech thee now and always, hear us, have mercy upon u_s." _

"_Have mercy upon us." A whisper, Edmund echoing._

"Lord Aslan, son of Emperor over the Sea, our wisdom, our help, our comfort, we beseech thee now and always, hear us, shower your grace upon us_."_

"_Shower your grace upon us." _

"We sup now with your blessing, taking into us the life of Narnia, earth and sky, field and mountain, ocean and desert. The bread, symbol of your provision_…" They ate. "_The wine, symbol of your blood, poured out for this land and for its peopl_e…" They drank deeply. As one, they took up their swords and rested upon the hilts, hands gripping the cross-guards._

"By your great mercy and love, Aslan, from all evil and mischief; from all blindness of heart; from pride, vainglory, and hypocrisy; from envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness; in all time of our tribulation; in all time of our prosperity; in the hour of our death, Great Lion, deliver us_."_

"_Great Lion, deliver us."_

"Most powerful and glorious Aslan, that rules and commands all things, we make our address to thee, that you would stir up your strength to help us, for you give not always the battle to the strong, but can save by many or by few. Hear us, Aslan, your servants begging mercy and imploring your help, that you would be a defense unto us against the face of the enemy. Hear us, Aslan, and keep in your care those most precious to our hearts. Defend them from all dangers and adversities, and grant them such trust in thy loving protection that they may be free from all anxious fears. In your great wisdom, grant that we should be reunited and may that day come soon_."_

"_Great Lion, we beseech thee, hear us."_

"From our enemies, defend us_."_

"_Graciously look upon our afflictions."_

"Favorably with mercy hear our prayers_."_

"_O Great Lion, have mercy upon us."_

"Both now and ever vouchsafe to hear us_."_

"Graciously hear us, lord."

"Aslan, let thy mercy be showed upon us and let thy will be done_."_

_Peter paused, and then he and Edmund said together, firmly, finishing the litany, "As we do put our trust in thee."_

Pulling himself back to the present with the echoes of the past in his ears, Edmund closed his eyes wearily. "If only I had been there, Aslan!" he whispered, "Why did you send Rabadash then, to keep me here? I could have _protected_ Peter – you _know_ he forever charges into the thick of things when he's on his own in a fight. You _know_ this!" He felt the old black anger building and fought against it, for long and bitter experience had taught him that raging against situations out of his control brought nothing but harm – to himself and to others. The young man took a deep breath and steadied himself. He still wanted to leap up and shout "WHY?" while shaking his fists at the eastern horizon, but the best solution lay in quietly asking for succor and trusting Aslan would do what was best. Edmund bent his head. Only the Great Lion could help his brother now.


	5. Indefatigable

**Disclaimer:** Nope, don't own 'em – any of 'em (well, except Palomnus and the ship). I wouldn't want to own Peter, anyway, not while he's recovering!

**IV**. _Indefatigable_

"Your majesty?"

Peter tried to turn his head – it felt as though it should be almost loose enough to flop right off his shoulders – but the radiant starburst of pain that accompanied his movement kept him staring blearily at the timbered ceiling. A cracked whimper escaped his lips, and somewhere, the part of him that remained aware curled up in embarrassment at his weakness. By the Lion, how he hated being drugged – being in enough control to know he was actually out of control of his own body was infuriating.

Steps came near to where he lay, wedged in a nest of firmly rolled padding and blankets, and slender fingers gently touched his forehead. Palomnus's face came into view, smiling, although his eyes remained concerned. "I see you are awake, my lord. I had hoped you would sleep for just a bit longer – you need as much rest as possible."

The High King swallowed, but the dryness of his mouth and throat nearly made him gag. "May I…" he finally said, his voice hoarse from prior abuses and his subsequent long silence, "please…have some…water?"

"Just a small sip," his valet said, and Peter heard the swish of water, the dripping rush of something being lightly wrung out, and then a soaked cloth was held to his lips. "You must drink from this, your highness," Palomnus said, "for you cannot sit just yet. We wouldn't want you choking, now, would we?" The young man did as he was instructed, and though the water was not particularly fresh, it was wet and cool, and Peter thought he had probably not tasted anything quite so delicious in quite a long time.

"Very good," Palomnus said approvingly, and he continued to douse the cloth until the king's thirst had been quenched. Peter thanked him, and the faun tutted, saying it was nothing, and seated himself on a three-legged stool beside the berth.

"Where…am I?" Peter asked, his eyes wandering back to the thick, black timbers above him. He remembered the battle, remembered the shocking surprise of seeing the other giant, the tremendous and extremely painful blow to the chest, and not much else since, aside from nearly constant, mind-numbing agony. Even now, he could feel it beneath the heaviness of his limbs and the pressure in his chest; fine, serrated; running through every rib. He ached, deeply, all over; his head felt as though it was simultaneously empty to the sky and stuffed with leaden cotton; and every breath seemed inadequate. Egad, but he'd really done himself proud this time. Edmund was going to kill him.

"You are being sent home to Cair Paravel aboard the _Indefatigable_," Palomnus said, and the High King's expression changed from slightly puzzled to thunderous.

"Oh, Palomnus," he said, eyes narrowed, "It is…good for…those who…decided this…that I cannot…move. Who?"

"Your trusted knights," his valet explained calmly, "and your chief physician."

Peter laboriously drew a deep breath. "That…explains…much."

"Your highness," Palomnus said sternly, "Your injury does not give you leave to be petty. I realize yours is a less than cordial opinion of Tristam, but if I may be so bold, it is rather unfounded."

The king made a face, and Palomnus huffed. "Are you High King of Narnia or a schoolboy?" he asked, "I know young squirrels better behaved. Tristam is an excellent physician; he loves you dearly, and it is most unlikely you would have survived to this hour without him."

"Then I…would have died…as befitting…a warrior." Peter said, knowing very well he was being petulant but not caring enough to stop himself. He was being sent home – to the rear, in retreat, away from the battle – a direction he never went willingly unless it was part of some larger plan or to set a trap. Not to mention he was starting to become irritated at being wounded to start with, at the pain being bad enough to require drugs, and at the fact that in spite of and because of them, he felt absolutely rotten.

Palomnus threw up his hands. "This is ridiculous. If you insist upon being so childish, I will leave you in peace." The faun rose from the stool and made his way to the cabin door, where he turned and gave the young man a reproving look. "Rest, my liege. Perhaps sleep will improve your mood."

The High King glared daggers at the ceiling. "Not bloody…likely," he said, after his valet had closed the door behind him. He lay scowling for a moment and then decided that sulking wasn't half as much fun alone and besides, it hurt. He could feel the liquid motion of the ship now, the listing, up and down, side to side, back and forth, driving through the waves. The blankets and rolls of fabric tucked in, around, beside, below, and above his arms, chest, and legs were very tight and kept him perfectly still, but they were all jammed into the berth with him, and the berth was built into the ship. "Lovely," he thought, "Let's add seasickness to my list of ills, shall we?"

As the minutes ticked by, Peter began to realize how uncomfortable – and isolated – he really was. The sailors on deck called to one another, and he could hear them moving about above him, going about their business efficiently and with cheerful spirits. The _Indefatigable_ was his fastest and largest warship, designed to carry troops when necessary and to harass any seaborne enemy with speed. He had named it in a fit of nostalgia for his lost homeland and for the tireless, dauntless spirit the name represented. Now the ship carried its sovereign home, and with that, abruptly Peter thought of his brother and sisters. Undoubtedly they had received news of his wounding by now, and he knew with certainty they would be very worried for him. His heart, lately hardened with self-pity, began to break.

"Oh, Aslan," he whispered, closing his eyes tiredly, "Forgive me for my selfish thoughts, please. I truly do not deserve the honor you have bestowed upon me, the family you have given me, or the subjects and friends among whom you have placed me. Keep Edmund, Susan, and Lucy safe and keep them free from distress on my behalf. Bring them comfort, and may you bring us together soon."

When Palomnus came in moments later, Peter was ready with an apology. "I've…been a…complete…idiot," he said, smiling sheepishly up at the bearded face leaning over him. "My…apologies, dear Palomnus. You…were right…I was being…childish."

His valet's eyes twinkled merrily. "I am delighted to hear your majesty agrees with my assessment and renounces your obstreperous behavior. There may be hope for you yet, my lord."

The young man stuck his tongue out at the faun good-naturedly. "Be seated," he said. "I would…add an…extravagant gesture…but I'm a…little tied…up at the moment."

"I take your majesty's meaning," said Palomnus, "and I will neglect mentioning to his highness Edmund that this is the thirty-third time you have broken your promise whilst on campaign."

Peter started to chuckle, which turned into a cough, which elicited an exclamation of pain. "Sweet Lion, how I loathe this," he said grimly, relaxing into the pillows.

"Perhaps this will cheer you up," Palomnus held up a roll of cream-colored paper. "A message from your brother. Stormcloud brought it just a short while ago."

"Read it…please," Peter said, his eyes suddenly bright. Oh, he knew what Edmund was going to say, and while it wouldn't exactly be sympathetic, just the sound of his words would be great consolation.

"As my king commands," the faun inclined his head and then broke the silver wax seal. The scent of wood smoke and bergamot drifted into the air, and the High King could almost see his brother hunched over his writing table, scratching out the letter, pausing every now and again to suck the feather end of the quill in thought, a terrible habit which exasperated Susan to no end. She swore he would contract some sort of disease eventually and die of it for sure, which only encouraged Edmund to continue, especially in her presence. Peter grinned, remembering one particularly spectacular row.

Palomnus began to read.

_"Ave, frater!_

_The next time you tell me you are able to take care of yourself while on campaign and try to leave me behind, I'm going to knock you senseless (or have Prince Corin do it for me – I think he has harder fists!), truss you up like a Christmas turkey, and lock you in your room. And post a guard. And not let you out of my sight again, ever. You do realize when you come back, don't you – as soon as Lucy heals you, I'm going to kill you? And after Lucy heals you again, Susan is going to kill you? I am fairly certain Lucy will want her turn, but perhaps her punishment will be curing you completely. You'd love that, wouldn't you? All that cordial, gone to waste. Ha!_

_Honestly, Peter, you great prat, what were you thinking? Su would say it's your hero complex at work, but I think it's mostly bull-headedness. I understand being willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for Narnia and all, but for Aslan's sake, must you exhaust yourself seeking the best opportunity? I don't suppose I need tell you, but we do love you, Peter, as do your subjects. Really! _

_In all seriousness, though, we're anxiously awaiting your return to the Cair – Stormcloud has promised to keep us abreast of your progress. I've asked him to stand by just in case you want to send a message to Emroth and the rest, that is, if you are feeling up to it. The army is in good hands, Peter, so try not to fret. I know it is difficult, seeing as how it is somewhat hardwired into your system, but you really can resist the urge to indulge in worrying. Please rest as much as possible and know that we are all praying for swift winds. Susan and Lucy send their love and kisses, as I presume hugs will be out of the question until you arrive and are cured. May Aslan keep you safely in his mighty paws until we see you again._

_With all my love,  
Edmund_

_P.S. One more thing. Don't give Palomnus a hard time. He's a good faun and doesn't deserve to be grumped at by a cranky patient. I know how you are. Ed."_

There was silence for a few moments, and then Palomnus re-rolled the letter. "It is a pity you didn't receive this earlier," he said primly, "I do hope you will take his advice to heart, your highness." Peter wrinkled his nose and crossed his eyes at his valet in response, and Palomnus allowed a small half smile to tug at his mouth.

"Are you well enough to dictate a message to your commanders?" he asked. When the High King nodded, the faun rummaged among his belongings for a moment and came out with his quill, ink bottle, and several sheets of paper. It took quite awhile, as the young man paused frequently to struggle for breath, but finally Palomnus finished with a flourish of the quill, blotted the ink, rolled the paper tightly, dripped a good quantity of blood red wax on the flap, and pressed Peter's signet ring into the hardening seal.

"I will return shortly," he said and left the cabin to find Stormcloud.


	6. Red Sails At Night

**Disclaimer:** Nope, Peter and Narnia aren't mine (waaaah) - only Palomnus, Tristam, Vettriano, and the _Indy_ belong to me. After this chapter, though, I doubt even my OCs want me to own them!  
**AN:** First, thank you **so much** to everyone who has reviewed! I am **truly **honored by your kind words and your helpful comments – the pressure's on now to keep it good! So, with that being said, we're heading into slightly darker waters with this nice long chapter – it was a hard one for me to write (a bit of writer's block, curse it!), but I hope it turned out ok… Enjoy!

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**V**. _Red Sails At Night_

Several hours later, Peter woke from a light doze to find the light in his cabin had dimmed considerably. He could feel the sea had become a bit rougher while he slept, tossing the _Indefatigable_, smashing against her prow as she plunged southward with the cold north wind at her back. The sedative effects of his last dose of opium had almost completely worn away, and the irregular motion of the ship began to make him almost sick. His head pounded, his chest felt as if it were on fire, and the blankets around him were clammy with sweat.

"Palomnus?" Silence greeted him, and now he could hear the wind had risen also, whistling through minute cracks, battering at the thick, leaded glass in the windows.

"Anyone…at all?"

Nothing. Feet pounded the poop deck above his head, and voices rose and fell – the captain shouting orders, sailors yelling to one another. Something was happening – and it didn't sound good. Peter gritted his teeth in frustration and decided to try to sit up anyway, but the mere act of tensing muscle and raising his head even an inch brought such a horrid shock of pain, he cried out and fell back. "Curse…this infernal…weakness!" he spat, furious. "I…can't…even lift… ah… Oh, Aslan…help me…" this last came out as a broken whisper, and tears pooled in his eyes, running down the sides of his face as he blinked rapidly. "Get me…home…"

There came a sudden rush as the cabin door opened and after a moment slammed shut again, and the young man heard his valet's hooves clattering over the wooden floor. Several others' steps accompanied them, and soon Palomnus bent over the berth, tousled and smelling strongly of the sea.

"King Peter," he said, reaching up unobtrusively and gently smoothing away the tear tracks as he spoke, "Your captain has come to speak with you. Are you feeling well enough to receive him?"

The High King reached deeply inside for strength and then nodded, smiling gratefully at the faun for his kindness. Palomnus very carefully eased the pillows up a bit in the berth, helping Peter turn his head to look out into the room. Captain Vettriano, a weather-beaten man with a leathery complexion and a crooked nose, bowed, his hat doffed. Tristam stood at his side, his gaze sharp and assessing as he bowed also.

"Your majesty," the captain said, "It cheers my heart t'see you awake. We're honored t'have you aboard, my lord, although we all wish 'twere under different circumstances."

"As do…I," Peter replied. He liked Vettriano very much and had great respect for his knowledge of the Great Eastern Ocean and of sailing in general.

"I asked t'speak with you, your majesty, as I wanted t'tell you of our situation." The captain paused and turned his hat over in his hands. "We're just 'pproaching the Seven Islands, and we've sighted sail behind us." Another pause. "Red sail, sire."

Peter let this information sink in and compressed his lips into a thin line. "I see…the pirate problem…has not yet…been resolved to…our royal satisfaction," he said, "Will…they catch us?"

"Without a doubt, sire," Vettriano said, and his frustration was evident. "The _Indy_'s as fast as they come in her class, but these blasted thieves are smaller and quicker. She'll have us outside of the hour."

"What do they want of us?" Palomnus asked, "We have no cargo. Certainly they can tell we're a warship and not rich merchants."

"Oh, we have cargo," Tristam said, raising an eyebrow sardonically. He flicked a finger towards Peter. "His majesty is the greatest of prizes."

The faun understood immediately and inhaled deeply. "Ransom."

The captain looked wretched, and Tristam nodded.

"Do they think they stand a chance against a ship of the High King's navy?" Palomnus inquired stridently, "With the High King himself aboard?"

"Normally, no," Vettriano said, "But the ship is empty of soldiers, good Palomnus. All we have are the crew, and while they will fight t'the death, they're no match for pirates."

"And if his majesty will forgive me," Tristam inclined his head, "he is not in any shape to be on deck providing inspiring leadership. In fact, I am entirely certain that his injured state is what has precipitated this attack. Apparently we were not as circumspect as we tried to be in keeping the news quiet."

"I'll say, though," said the captain, "He's a bold fellow indeed who would challenge Narnia's might this way."

"But what is to be done?" asked the faun.

"We will fly…the white flag, and I…will give…myself…over to them." Peter interjected quietly, resigned acceptance in his voice. "The…treasury at the Cair is…sufficient to cover…anything…they should…ask."

"But your highness!" Palomnus objected, "This is foolishness!"

The young man set his jaw stubbornly. "I…will _not_…have these…sailors dying…on my account. Not while I…can…do something to protect…them."

The three glanced at one another. "My lord, listen to me." Tristam went forward and knelt on one knee beside the berth, looking up at his king intently. "Delivering yourself into their hands does Narnia no good. You are wounded, and you will not receive adequate care from them. You could very well die before any ransom was paid. Your majesty's concern for your subjects is most admirable, but in this case, it is unwise to place their welfare before your own."

Peter narrowed his eyes and was about to respond when Vettriano spoke. "I agree with Tristam, sire. T'present yourself voluntarily to such scum would only serve t'embolden the lot of 'em. Any of us would gladly lay down our lives for yours."

Palomnus stamped a hoof and uttered a small sound of impatience. "I am fairly overcome by the nobility in the room," he said tersely, "It does you all credit, to be sure. You are forgetting, however, that when our bodies litter the deck, the pirates will do as they please and take his highness anyway. You said yourself, my dear captain; we are no match for them in arms. For now, our strength lies in cleverness."

A tense silence held sway for several heartbeats, and then Tristam smiled slowly. "Then I believe I have a plan."

* * *

Captain Vettriano eyed the wind-tossed clouds in the darkening sky and stood a little straighter, winding his fingers tightly around the grip of his sword. The pirate ship, aptly named the _Rapacious_, had finally pulled alongside the _Indefatigable_, and boarding hooks now whistled through the air to land with a sharp crack on the deck and entangle in the rigging. Shouting fiercely, the buccaneers swung over or climbed across, and while the crew put up a token resistance, no lives were lost, and only a very few sustained shallow wounds. The Narnians' weapons were taken, and they were subsequently herded into a group near the capstan; their hands were tied tightly behind their backs and looped into a long line. The pirates fanned out over the ship, rousting out those who had hidden below and indulging in a bit of looting and breaking as well. 

It was then that another man climbed over the side of the _Indefatigable_, and Vettriano knew this was the captain. Tall and powerfully built, he had deep blue eyes and a massive black beard braided and bedecked with trinkets, coins, and small bones. His clothing and the skin showing was filthy, but he carried himself like royalty, and when his gaze fell on the huddled captives, his face split in a wide smile.

"Ah, greetings to you, my friends!" he cried, "A wonderful day, is it not?"

He received no answer, but this did not deter his cheerful spirits. "Come now, which one of you is the commander of this fine vessel?"

Vettriano stepped forward, and the pirate guarding them released him from his bonds. "I am," he said, "What 'tis the meaning of this?"

The pirate leader smiled again, and greed gleamed in his eyes. "Financial gain, of course," he responded, rubbing his large, bony hands together eagerly, "at your expense, my friend. What else?"

"The High King of Narnia will not stand for this outrage," Vettriano said warningly, "You will be hunted down and destroyed, mark my words."

The other captain smiled nastily and leaned close, the fetid stench of his unwashed body almost overpowering. "The way I hear it," he said casually, "The High King of Narnia cannot stand at all."

A sudden loud commotion from the direction of the master cabin interrupted the Vettriano's reply, and they both turned to see one of the pirates dragging a protesting Palomnus out onto the deck. "You cannot do this!" he exclaimed, "His majesty is grievously wounded! To move him might mean his death! In the name of Aslan, please…" The pirate struck him across the face and continued to bring him forward.

The man threw the faun down in the midst of the Narnian sailors and returned to the darkened cabin. Vettriano held his breath as he and another ragged brigand came out once more, bearing between them a heavily bandaged, limp figure, trailing several long blankets from the berth. They brought their burden across the deck and lay him down, none too gently, at the pirate captain's feet. The other buccaneers gathered around their leader, the better to see.

"Who could this be here?" he asked, his glee proving he knew quite well who it was. He bent down and unwound the bandaging around the young man's head. Vettriano tried to keep the anxiety out of his expression and failed. If this didn't work, things were going to turn nasty quickly. One by one, the dirty white lengths of cloth fell away until eventually the face was revealed, pasty white and smeared with a liberal amount of blood. Tristam had done an exceptionally good job of making himself look terribly ill and wounded.

"Excellent," the brigand said and nudged the physician with his boot, bringing forth a realistic groan. "I am certain to receive a king's ransom for this one." He glanced up at Vettriano and chuckled. "Don't fear, my friend, he'll be well taken care of."

The Narnian captain managed to continue looking irate, in spite of the relief he felt inside. The pirate swept an exaggerated bow towards the man at his feet and motioned to the two other pirates who had remained at his side. "Escort his royal highness to his new quarters, will you?"

One attempted to do his bidding, and the other remained standing quietly for a moment. Then he spat a long plume of tobacco juice and said laconically, "I would. 'Cept I seen his royal highness once, and that ain't him."

The very air seemed to freeze. Slowly, the pirate captain turned back to Vettriano, and all pretense of good humor had vanished. "Not his royal highness, eh?" he said precisely, his eyes hard and dangerous, seeing the truth in the other's face. "Well, then. Would you care to tell me where he really is?"

Vettriano swallowed hard, but remained silent. Tristam lay still, his eyes closed in failure.

"Tear the ship apart," the brigand ordered curtly, and the pirates moved to obey. The sounds of wanton destruction came to Narnian ears, wood splintering, chests being hacked apart, cabinets being torn open, supplies being opened and dumped. Nothing escaped their attention, not even the ship's boats hanging from their block and tackles on either side of the deck. Their covers were raised and the contents prodded. The pirates eventually returned empty-handed to their captain, who fingered his beard thoughtfully.

"I know the High King is aboard this ship," he said, "You're sure you won't tell me where you've hidden him?" Silence. "No?" the pirate asked, looking to each of the Narnian sailors and Palomnus, who stared defiantly back. "No?" There was a whisper of leather against steel as the captain drew his dagger. "Not even now?" and with a frightful smile, he leaned over and swiftly carved the Archenlander's eyes from his head.

In that instant, the air became unbreathable, not only from the sickening tang of blood, but the horror of what had just occurred. The Narnian captain fought hard with his rising gorge, and Tristam screamed, his hands flying up too late, his fingers scrabbling at his face. The pirate captain, triumph painting his features, held up his reddened dagger for all to see and then tossed away the jellied orbs speared upon it. "Still not feeling cooperative?" he asked.

Stricken, Vettriano thought he could not have spoken even if he had wished it. Tristam was blinded, and he himself was no doubt facing the same fate or worse. Perhaps the entire crew would be tortured and slaughtered, and King Peter would be left to die slowly of starvation if his injuries did not finish him first. Even paying a ransom would be better than that happening. Still, his mouth felt as though it was sewn shut and his body had turned to stone. The situation had taken a dreadful turn for the worst, and he didn't have the faintest idea how to fix it.

The pirate captain's expression hardened. "You have tested my patience beyond its limit," he said coldly and gestured with his weapon. "Put those boats over the side."

Several pirates rushed to do as he ordered, and the block and tackles rumbled as the ropes rushed through them at uncontrolled speed; the boats themselves plummeted downward and landed in the ocean with a mighty splash. One overturned, and the canvas cover loosened, spilling blankets and survival supplies out into the waves. The other boat rocked perilously, steadied, and then began to bob away from the _Indefatigable_. Palomnus's gaze rested on it for the space of an instant as it drifted into view, and then he quickly looked back at the deck.

"Tie them with the others," was the next command, and Palomnus and Vettriano were pushed roughly into place, their hands bound behind them into the line. The physician was left where he lay, writhing slightly and moaning, blood still oozing down his cheeks.

The pirate captain stepped back. "Fire the ship," he said, and when this brought no panicked cries of confession, he shrugged almost indifferently and turned to make his way back to the _Rapacious_.

"King Edmund will hunt you down like the dog you are and lay you t'waste for this!" Vettriano shouted, "You have violated all of Narnia!" The pirate did not respond, and one of the others who had not gone to fetch coals from the _Indefatigable's_ galley savagely struck the Narnian captain on the back of his head. He fell forward, senseless.

It did not take long for the brigands to set several fires in various places in and around the ship, and bright orange flames leapt forward eagerly, voraciously consuming everything in their path. Clouds of choking smoke rolled upwards, heat waves danced and shimmered; thick, black tar bubbled and sizzled between cracks. Tongues of fire snaked up the rigging and spread to the sails, and the High King's most prized warship soon became a towering inferno.

The pirates, seeing that all was to their satisfaction, returned to their own ship and released their binding ropes and hooks. As the _Rapacious_ sailed slowly away into the gathering darkness, Palomnus twisted his hands, trying frantically to loosen the ropes, but the knots held good. "We mustn't give up!" he shouted to his fellow captives, who were also doing their best to escape. "Please, Aslan," he whispered to himself, sweat running down his reddened face from the ever-approaching fires, "Please give us hope, for without your aid, we – and your High King, Peter – are truly, utterly lost."


	7. Interlude Exspectatio

**Disclaimer:** The usual... See previous... (smile)  
**AN:** What are you all doing hanging there on that cliffside? Just a moment, and I'll be back with some rope... (walks away whistling)

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Interlude – Exspectatio_

_She paused in her work, her hands stilled, with colorful threads running through her fingers like a living rainbow. It was almost here – her release, her salvation; her triumph – for **he** was coming to her finally, borne in the bosom of the sea_._ She had spent sleepless nights carefully crafting her snare, and the enchantments were strong, tempered with exacting patience and seasoned with vengeance. She inhaled sharply, excitement coloring her wan cheeks. To be in **his** presence at last, now that would be sweet indeed. He would do as she asked; his ingrained sense of nobility – of chivalry – ensured his acquiescence. If, by some odd chance he refused, well then, so be it. He would pay. Dearly..._


	8. This Time of Trouble

**Disclaimer: **Nope, I don't own even the tiniest bit of Narnia or the Four Sovereigns. What would I do with them, anyway? Kings and Queens take a lot of looking after, even Narnian ones!  
**AN:** Sorry for the wait, but hey, you now get two chapters for the price of one! Finally found that rope, too, so up you get!

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"_A great shout arose from the Old Narnians. Miraz was down, not struck by Peter, but face downwards, having tripped on a tussock. Peter stepped back waiting for him to rise. 'Oh bother, bother, bother,' said Edmund to himself. 'Need he be as gentlemanly as all that? I suppose he must. Comes of being a Knight and a High King'."  
How All Were Very Busy, Prince Caspian_ by C.S. Lewis 

**VI. **_This Time of Trouble_

"Lucy, are you well?"

The young woman looked up from where she was pushing a piece of bacon around her plate to see Susan frowning gently at her. "You haven't eaten very much at all this morning, and you're looking rather pale. Is something troubling you?"

Lucy suddenly laughed, but there was a slightly bitter edge to the sound. "Is something troubling me?" she echoed, dropping her silver fork onto the porcelain with a clatter. "Why would anything be troubling me?"

Her older sister sighed shortly. "Please, Lu, I was only asking. Do you think this is easy for me, either? This waiting – knowing my brother is wounded, in great pain, possibly near death?" When she received no answer, she picked up her own utensils and began cutting her wild mushroom quiche into minute, excruciatingly exact pieces with short, savage strokes. "I hate it as much as you do."

The younger queen scowled for a moment and then buried her face in her hands with something very close to a sob. "Oh, Susan. I'm sorry." Her shoulders hitched, and she began to cry harder. "I just…I'm so worried about Peter I can hardly think straight. I can't sit still, and when I'm moving, I don't know where to go or what to do. I never thought this would actually happen. He's always so…lucky in battle – nothing seems ever to touch him."

"He's very skilled," Susan whispered, her eyes faraway and her hands motionless, "and he has been blessed, but we were foolish to think he would always escape, Lucy. Many others have suffered far worse in his stead."

"You're right," Lucy replied, wiping her streaming eyes with her napkin, "and it's not as though the situation is completely hopeless. I do have my cordial."

The eldest queen allowed a small smile to pull at her lips, and she speared a piece of quiche. "Poor Peter. How it must gall him to know there's nothing for it but to rescind his orders and allow you to use as much as you like on him!"

Lucy giggled thickly. "Do you remember the time he broke his arm in one of those tournaments on Terebinthia and then refused to let me cure him? Oh, but that was funny! He insisted the cordial would give him an advantage others didn't have, and that wouldn't be proper or befitting a Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion."

Susan snorted in a very unladylike fashion. "He just didn't want to look a weakling in front of all those other knights and nobles. I mean, can you imagine the scandal? The High King of Narnia losing his head over a broken arm?"

"But then of course he couldn't compete, so Ed convinced me to put a drop or two in his wine that night, saying the reputation of Narnia was at stake, for High King and country and all that." The younger woman grinned broadly. "Besides, it was such a tearing good joke. Remember the look on Peter's face when he felt it healing him? I thought he was going to kill Edmund and then start in on me!"

"He certainly did make a fuss." Susan said, smiling.

The two queens continued to partake of their breakfast, trading stories of their older brother's notorious stubbornness and his equally entrenched noble dignity, and their laughter rang out merrily in the small, elegant salon. Her spirits having risen considerably, Lucy dug into her fruit salad with relish and was just about to relate yet another anecdote to her sister when the double doors burst open. Susan straightened in her chair with a little cry of surprise, dropping her buttered muffin in her lap and losing her grip on the knife as well.

"Edmund!" she cried, brushing frantically at her dress, "Look at what you've done! Now I've butter all down my blouse and crumbs in my skirt! Have you no better manners than to enter a room so loudly without any warning whatsoever?"

"Susan…" Lucy interjected warningly, half rising from her chair, and her older sister finally looked up, further complaints dying unspoken on her tongue. Edmund stood just inside the doorway, and he was trembling with anger. Splotches of sickly red stained his face, and his eyes glittered dangerously. His sisters regarded him with worry, and he held up a hand and took several deep breaths before attempting to speak.

"You'd better sit down again," he said, and Lucy did so without hesitation as he shut them into the salon. There was a note to his voice that froze her to the bone with fear, and she saw that Susan heard it as well.

"What has happened?" she asked quietly.

Edmund crossed to the table and braced himself against it, his fists clenched, knuckles whitened. He swallowed hard. "Pirates attacked the _Indefatigable_ last night," he said hoarsely, and the room went utterly, totally still. Lucy felt her head beginning to swim. "For some reason, they fired the ship. Stormcloud reported seeing some survivors clinging to one of the ship's boats and bits of wreckage – one looks as though he is wounded, but Stormcloud confirmed that none are the High King." This last was delivered flatly, fury laid bare.

The youngest queen could not breathe. Oxygen had been sucked out of the room with Edmund's news, and she found she could not draw even the tiniest of breaths. Black spots began to dance before her eyes, and colors ran together, and suddenly she found herself pitching forward. There came a shout from Edmund and an exclamation from Susan, and her brother's strong hands caught her shoulders just before her nose struck the table and her bowl of fruit. A goblet of ice water was held to her lips, and she took a small sip and then another. Susan had come around the table and was now smoothing her forehead, rubbing her back, and, Lucy realized, weeping silently, the tears running one after another down her cheeks and dripping onto Lucy's hair, the chair arm; the floor.

There came a terrible cry and the sound of glass shattering, and Lucy lifted her head to see that Edmund had thrown the water goblet against the wall in a fit of grief-stricken rage. He fell to his knees, where he doubled over, hands clutching his head, his body shaking. She flew out of her chair, and, followed by Susan, knelt beside the younger king, putting her arms around him as best she could. Their older sister embraced him from the other side and her left hand came up and clasped Lucy's arm.

How long they stayed that way Lucy could not tell. She simply lay her burning face against Edmund's back – inhaling bergamot and pine wood, spices and tobacco – and thought of how Peter smelled – mostly fresh and clean, like mint, and other times like horses and armor, steel and leather, sweat and blood. She thought of how Peter looked, his burnished blond hair shining in the sun, his blue eyes laughing, his white teeth flashing, those elusive dimples appearing every now and then when he was especially amused. She thought of how Peter felt, when he turned her through the steps of a dance or corrected her grip on a sword or held her close in a comforting hug, steady strength in his arms and hands, keeping her safe – keeping them safe – keeping Narnia safe. She closed her eyes, salt tears leaking from them and soaking Edmund's jerkin, spreading into a large dark stain. She never wanted to move again.

It was Susan who finally stirred first, squeezing the younger queen's arm gently and disengaging from their embrace. Her beautiful face was reddened and patchy, her nose ran, and her eyes were swollen from crying, but nevertheless, she was calm and resolute. "Come, Edmund, Lucy," she said, "We must see to rescuing the poor sailors before more are lost. There is much to be done."

The king remained for a moment with his forehead pressed to the carpet, and then he straightened and got to his feet. Lucy thought he looked as though he had aged twenty years in an instant – he was haggard and gray, but something dark flickered in his deep brown eyes. A chill shivered between her shoulder blades, and impulsively she reached up and touched his cheek. He looked down at her, utterly spent. "Don't, Edmund," she said, "Peter wouldn't want you to lose yourself in vengeance. It does his memory no honor." He clenched his jaw and looked away, silent, and Lucy bit her lip.

"Peace," said Susan softly, her glance moving from one to the other, troubled. "We do not know with certainty that our brother is dead. Please, let us trust in Aslan and continue to hope. At least until we receive proof."

She went to the doors and opened them wide, drawing herself up, tall and regal in spite of her disheveled state. Several retainers and servants had gathered in the hallway, deep concern written in their expressions, and when they saw Susan, they sank into low bows and curtseys. She began to issue orders and requests, and watching, Lucy thought her sister could be dressed in a potato sack and stand in a pigsty and still her subjects would respect and revere her. Such was Susan the Gentle, and Lucy was glad of her serenity. They would need it.


	9. Arrival

**Disclaimer:** I just play in Lewis's sandbox, and I promise to put things back the way I found them (well, _almost_ the way I found them…). So no sue.

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**VII.**_Arrival_

"_Peter…"_ the call was soft, gentle, echoing through delirious darkness. _"Peter, my son…"_

The young man's eyes fluttered beneath closed lids, but he continued to drift, afloat in a sea of black slumber, heavy and warm.

"_Peter…"_ stronger and wilder, but still tender. _"Peter, hear me…"_

Again, a twitch – a murmur from parted lips, almost a response, but not quite.

"_Peter…"_ a command now, with the hint of a growl. _"Peter, arise!"_

It was enough. This time, with an explosive shudder, the High King surfaced from his opium-induced unconsciousness, gasping and clawing for purchase, fighting to escape the void. His body jerked convulsively as his eyes flew open, and he inhaled violently, reflexively of hot, suffocating air, choking on dust. He found he could not move – his arms and legs were seemingly bound tightly together, while an unknown weight pressed down heavily upon the length of him. Panic clouded his senses, and he fought mindlessly with his restraints, becoming more tangled, nearly hyperventilating.

As he came more fully to himself, Peter gradually grasped that his struggles only served to snarl him further in what he finally understood were blankets, bandaging, and canvas bags of supplies. He coughed forcibly, and then with all the intensity and blazing heat of lightning it struck him – he was breathing and moving easily, _without_ _pain_.

At this, the High King completely relaxed, dumbstruck. What had happened? Now that he had ceased thrashing about, he realized the ship's boat had been lowered into the water, for he heard waves slapping lightly against the hull and felt the gentle undulations of the ocean beneath him. Something must have gone horribly wrong with Tristam's plan, but he told himself firmly that wild speculation and worry were useless at this point and would do no one any good until he had examined his current situation.

The young man then began to extricate himself slowly from his wrappings, pausing every now and then to breathe experimentally, as if he were afraid of his injuries abruptly returning to him doublefold. When his arms were free, he gingerly reached up and touched his chest, probing beneath the splints for broken ribs and wincing in anticipation of what he would find. His questing fingers discovered nothing but hard, perfect ridges of bone beneath muscle and smooth skin – neither tender spots marking bruises, nor rough scabs covering lacerations made themselves known. A creeping dread stole over him, and he shivered in spite of the heat.

Peter had not been High King of Narnia for twelve-odd years without experiencing his fair share of strange adventures and unnatural occurrences, and such a miraculous healing as this, without an obvious catalyst like Lucy's cordial, greatly unnerved him. Moving him to the ship's boat from the berth had required him being dosed with enough opium to stun a small giant, but now he could move effortlessly, without the numbing effect of the drug and without even a splinter of pain. "Nothing good can possibly come of this…" he muttered grimly, shoving away the bags of supplies and blankets, wiggling to where he could half sit up between the benches, and unwinding the last of the bandaging around his legs.

Removing the boat's cover took a bit of doing from the inside, but Peter eventually worked it off and stowed it beneath the benches. He stood carefully, feeling the weakness in his legs from being so long abed, and gloried in the breeze coming off the ocean. Sunlight sparkled and danced off of foaming waves, and he shaded his eyes, searching for any sign of the _Indefatigable_. The horizon he faced was empty – hazy blue sky met hazy blue water in an exact line. Anxiety clenched at his heart. What had _happened_?

Undaunted, however, he swiveled to look behind him, and to his great surprise, there lay a long, white beach and forested shore, towards which the boat was swiftly drifting. "Must be one of the Seven Islands," Peter thought, remembering Captain Vettriano saying they were near. This was quite good luck. If it was the main island, Brenn, then perhaps the _Indy_ had managed to make berth at its capital, Redhaven, or he would find news of them there. He found the oars, fitted them into the oarlocks, and rowed the rest of the way in to the beach, enjoying the delightful sensation of movement, of actually being able to _do_ something for himself again.

With a harsh, grinding jolt, the boat reached the shallows, and the High King vaulted lightly over the side into the water, sending up a terrific splash. Grabbing the gunwales, he dragged the boat a fair way up onto the beach, his bare feet sinking to the ankles in the pale, smooth sand. He then fell to his knees, feeling a momentary pang at his lack of a sword.

"Oh, Aslan," he prayed, "Please, show me mercy. Great Lion, keep your servant safe, and give me wisdom and a measure of your courage. Make me sensitive to your leading and sensible of my surroundings. If it is your will and by your grace I am healed, my thanks are yours. If someone else wishes me harm, keep me ever beneath your paw." He paused and bent forward, pressing his forehead to his open palms. "Wherever they are, I ask your protection for my subjects and those who serve me – for the crew of the _Indefatigable_ and for my good Palomnus and Tristam. Bring comfort to my family – please see fit to reunite us soon. Aslan, I commend them all to your care, as I place my trust in you."

Almost before he had finished, a most delicious smell came suddenly to him over the ocean breeze, causing him to look up immediately, wild hope lighting his eyes.

"_Peter…"_ the voice came again from his dreams, insistent and firm, pulling him to his feet, seeming simultaneously to come from inside him and all around. _"Peter, my dear son – come – follow me…"_

The young man closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, joy etched on his face, confidence replacing his fear. If Aslan went before him, who – or what – could stand in his way?

With a clearer head and renewed purpose, he climbed back into the boat and set to work packing himself a bundle of ship's biscuit, dried fruit, and several small, empty water skins from the canvas sacks that had hidden him. After he finished there, finding fresh water was first priority. He ate a handful of the apricots and apples and then took up the long, dirty-white strips of bandaging and binding cloth.

Peter was well aware that with his fair skin and coloring, he was a natural candidate for horrible sunburn, and as he was clad only in long, loose linen trousers, something had to be done or he would be the color of an overripe tomato by nightfall, especially if he kept to the beach. He found the widest pieces and wrapped them around his torso several times over, winding more over his upper chest in a criss-crossing pattern.

Making certain of easy movement, the High King tied the ends off and tucked them into a fold, draping one of the lighter blankets over his shoulders as a mantle. He also bound his feet, knowing that mere cloth was not going to do much in the way of protection if he chose to enter the forest – or even if he stayed on the sand, but he figured something was better than nothing.

Quite satisfied, Peter jumped back out onto the beach with several more blankets and the supplies made up into a bigger bundle, and he managed to drag the boat up further and, after several tries, overturn it to cover the remaining sacks and the oars. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he glanced up at the sky, discerning that the sun was just past its zenith. As he did so, he saw several large black birds wheeling there in the clear air. "Merry, but that's odd," he breathed, squinting, "Those aren't gulls, nor any type of seabird I know. They look like crows." Peter paused, puzzled, a slight frisson of unease crawling down his spine, but then he shrugged and began to make his way down the beach.

As he walked, he thought perhaps it was safer to assume he had landed on one of the northern Islands rather than Brenn. They were fairly sparsely inhabited, if he remembered correctly, but they were also smaller in size than the southernmost Islands. Along with Susan and Lucy, he had made a state visit to each of Narnia's vassal kingdoms a year and a half ago, and they had visited each of the Seven to speak with the people, feast on local cuisine, and tour the small industries of fishing, trapping, and mining.

That had been a good trip – one of the last times just he and his sisters had traveled together before news came of the giants gathering on the northern frontier. Edmund had been ill with something suspiciously like the chicken pox at the time, and he had _not_ been happy about being left behind to itch in solitude. Lucy brought back an elaborately carved back-scratcher for him as a joke, which had not improved the younger king's mood one iota. Peter smiled wistfully. It seemed so very long ago.

The High King glanced back over his shoulder to where the ship's boat was stowed and noticed the black birds had gone – all but one, which flew lazily overhead and let out an abrasive 'caw' as it passed above him. His prior disquiet returned in full force, and for the second time he keenly regretted not having the comforting weight of his sword belt slung around his hips. Shrugging his bundle up higher on his shoulder, he plowed ahead, forcing himself to concentrate on one thing at a time. First thing was finding drinkable water – then he could worry about baleful black crows…

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**AN:** No, this really isn't a deus ex machina! There's a reason Peter's walking with no pain, there really is! And it does have bearing on the plot+hiding in bushes to escape thrown Velveeta cheese+ 


	10. A Stranger Among Us

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Narnia or Peter. I wouldn't want to end up responsible for what I put them through…

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**VIII**. _A Stranger Among Us_

It was a hot, stuffy afternoon, although very little sunlight actually filtered down through the mighty branches, leaves, and needles of the great trees crowding one another on the forest floor. No refreshing breeze made it off of the sea into the interior, and the air was thick with the smell of pine resin and dry wood. A few birds sang, and one or two squirrels scampered about, playing, but silence otherwise reigned supreme.

Sighing, Carvaca drew a tired hand across her sticky forehead and adjusted the scarf holding back her curly brown hair. She straightened, stretching, and looked down sadly at the paltry collection of stunted raspberries and blackberries she had collected in her basket. Hardly even enough for a pie if she threw both kinds together, but she would work with what she had. There was still some time left to pick more before she had to return to the village.

She looked around, wondering where her two little troublemakers had gone. They had been brought along to help, but it hadn't been long before they were edging farther and farther from the berry bushes where she had put them to work. Their forgotten baskets sat with only a berry or two between them. Carvaca frowned. Exploring was well and good, but they were too close to the beach for unbridled wandering. Unfortunately, she knew Robin would not be content to stay within the trees. He was extremely curious, but the forest was not forgiving of such a trait.

Just as this thought crossed her mind, high-pitched, childish screams came to her ears, and her heart jumped into her throat. "Oh, no," she groaned, gathering her skirts and taking off through the undergrowth towards the river. "Oh, please, no…" Her slippers tangled in grasping vines, and she fell heavily, cursing, nearly weeping. Her children's voices had fallen ominously quiet. Frantically, Carvaca struggled to her feet and ran on, her breath coming in heaves. She pressed through a stand of ferns and small pine trees and nearly plunged over the steep riverbank. There she saw Robin and his sister Muriel, standing motionless and staring towards the opposite shore, and when she raised her eyes to see what had frightened them so, she gasped with shock and covered her mouth with both hands.

A young man stood there, someone she had never seen before in her life. He was dressed in rags like the beggars she remembered from her childhood, but she knew instinctively that he was no vagrant. He stood too straight and looked entirely too healthy, and while he appeared relaxed, his presence was watchful and alert. Carvaca noticed that he held a water skin in one hand and surmised he had been filling it with the fresh water when her children had come upon him. She went to them hastily. Muriel turned and clung to her, and she put a comforting hand on her daughter's head and began smoothing her hair. Robin refused to take her other hand, but her presence must have emboldened him, for he spoke, defiance in his tone.

"Who are you?" he asked, folding his arms like his father and frowning. "What are you doing here?"

The stranger blinked, and a slow smile crossed his face. "Only a humble knight," he said, his voice a pleasant baritone, "I have lost my way."

"On _this_ island?" Robin asked incredulously, but his mother grasped his shoulder firmly and pinched. He shut his mouth with a snap and regarded the young man with narrowed green eyes.

"How did you get here?" Carvaca questioned, finding her voice at last. This was the true question, and she found herself strangely excited and eager to hear the answer. No one from outside had been to the island since before the Change, for just as the inhabitants could not leave, others, it seemed, could not arrive. Or at least, they hadn't, not until now.

"I was…shipwrecked," the knight replied. "If you please, madam, where is 'here'? What place is this?"

At this, Carvaca hesitated. She wanted to be honest, as it was certain the stranger would never again see whatever land from which he hailed, and she felt he should know from the start what he was facing. On the other hand, she was not at all sure he would take the news well, and even clothed in rags, he did not look like the type of man one wanted to cross. "Fortune has played you a poor hand, I'm afraid," she said apologetically, "You have come to an accursed place. This is the island of Murano."

An eyebrow twitched, and a flicker of surprise danced across the knight's face before it was replaced again with that steady neutrality. "I am afraid I must beg your pardon, madam," he said, "I am unfamiliar with the name."

"Indeed, sir, I would be most surprised if you'd heard of it," she said, "Those of us who live here cannot leave. We haven't had any contact with the outside world for many, many years. Not since I was a small child. You shouldn't have been able to get here, either, by rights."

This time, both eyebrows shot up in astonishment and stayed there. He clearly had not expected this.

"Sweet Lion," he exclaimed softly, and while Carvaca tried to figure out what that meant, he bent, placed the water skin in a bundle at his feet, and tied the bundle closed. He then straightened and looked at her, the directness of his gaze slightly disconcerting.

"Madam," he said, "It appears we have much to say to one another – or at least you have much to tell me. Would you be so kind as to correct my ignorance?"

Carvaca was unused to being spoken to in such a courtly manner, and she blushed a little and flustered a bit before nodding. Robin fidgeted beneath her hand, and she gave him a little push in the direction of the berry bushes. "Go on now and finish filling your basket," she ordered, "Since I see you have done so much already."

He gave her a guilty smirk, but he turned to leave.

"Wait," came the knight's voice, "Have I interrupted your work?"

"We were only picking berries, sir," Carvaca said, "It's nothing."

The stranger picked up his bundle and hoisted it onto his back. "I do not wish to take you from such a worthy pursuit," he said, "Let me join you. Is there a better place than this to cross the river?"

"Down a bit further you'll find several trees that have fallen across," she gestured vaguely to her right, "but be mindful of the moss on the bark. It can be a bit slippery."

He grinned, and the transformation of his face was startling. "Stand by then," he said, "I'll either be over soon, or you'll have to fish me out of the water." He turned and cut back into the thickets, making his way upstream as close to the bank as he could. He moved with confidence and some measure of woodcraft, Carvaca saw, and as she followed his progress, she suddenly felt afraid. What had she done? He certainly seemed personable enough and not as though he had robbery – or worse – on his mind, but the very fact that he was _there_, that he had come to this invisible, accursed island at all, was disturbing. Her husband often chided her for being too trusting, and she hoped fervently that this instance would not turn out for the worst.

Muriel tugged at her skirts, and Carvaca looked down to see her youngest wide-eyed.

"Mumma," she said, "Who's that man?"

"You heard him," Carvaca answered, running her fingers through the child's curls, "A lost knight. Like in the stories Grandma Gemma tells you."

The little girl brightened. "Oh," she breathed, "Like the ones rescuing princesses! And fighting dragons!"

"Oh, come," Robin scoffed, "Those are nothing but fairy tales! He may be a knight, but he's never killed a dragon."

"You don't know, Robin!" Muriel cried angrily, "You don't know that!"

"Sure I do," her brother said smugly, "Dragons don't exist. Anyone knows that, silly girl."

"Enough!" Carvaca said firmly, "Robin, the world is a lot bigger than this island. Dragons did exist, once upon a time, and they may still, for all we know. Run along now and start working on your basket. I want to see it half full by the time I come back."

The young boy glowered, and while he did as instructed, he went as slowly as he possibly could, rebellion evident in every movement.

"Step lively now," his mother called sharply, and he picked up the pace a bit. But only a bit, and Carvaca sighed. They stood, waiting, and she began to wonder again if she had done the right thing in talking with the stranger instead of running back to the village, screaming her head off for help.

"Mumma," Muriel said eventually, tugging again.

"What?" Carvaca asked, trying to keep the weariness from her voice.

"Do _you_ think the knight has killed a dragon?"

"I really couldn't say, dear one. Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"Ask me what?"

Carvaca and Muriel jumped, startled, as the stranger came around the huge trunk of a sweeping, ancient pine, stepping carefully. Up close, he was much taller than Carvaca had thought, but then, she had been standing roughly a foot above him on the higher bank. Now he towered over her by at least a head, and he was actually much dirtier and ragged than she had seen from afar in the dim forest light. Alarm seized her afresh, and her hand sought Muriel's head, which had quickly been buried in her skirts once more.

The knight must have sensed her nervousness, for he stopped several paces away. "You have nothing to fear from me," he said gently, "I wish you no harm, although I imagine I do look rather frightening." He reached up with his free hand and scratched comically at the clearly unintended beginnings of a beard.

"Being shipwrecked does nothing for one's looks," Carvaca responded, reassured somewhat. "Though I have never tried it, myself."

"I pray you never do," he said, serious, and she caught a flash of something unbearably sad in his clear blue eyes.

"Was your loss great?" she asked without meaning to do so, and she cursed herself for being so careless as he turned his head away, a frown creasing his forehead.

"Oh, yes," he said quietly after a moment, looking back at her, "I am now bereft of my friends, my home, and my family forever, if what you say is true. Yes, madam, my loss is indeed great."

Carvaca was silent, and although she knew him not, she felt her heart break – for him and for those he loved who would never see him again.


	11. The Curse Has Come Upon Me

**Disclaimer:** Nope, don't own Narnia or the High King. And he's glad of it.**  
AN:** **Thank you** again to all of you who have reviewed so faithfully. That you are enjoying this and that you are kind enough tell me so **really **does make me smile! Just as an fyi, the next update might not be for a week or so, as Darth Real Life has challenged me to another duel. But I'll do my best to write when I can, and I'm always daydreaming, so never fear! And we will see what the other Pevensies are up to soon, I promise. I just like spending time with Peter...

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_On either side the river lie  
Long fields of barley and of rye,  
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;  
And thro' the field the road runs by  
To many-tower'd Camelot;  
And up and down the people go,  
Gazing where the lilies blow  
Round an island there below,  
The island of Shalott  
+The Lady of Shalott_ by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, lines 1-9 

**IX**. _The Curse Has Come Upon Me…_

Peter's head was whirling with all he had heard. To tell the truth, he had been just as surprised as the children when they burst out of the brush on the far side of the river, although he had managed to keep from yelling and had instead nearly lost his grip on the slippery water skin, which had been nearly full and heavy. Then when their mother had come along – the shock of hearing he had not, in fact, landed on one of the Seven – her words about the island being impossible to find and equally impossible to leave…

The High King drew a deep breath and tried to put the crippling thought from his mind – he knew he must not allow it to take hold or he would despair. If he had been the first to arrive in such a long time, then by Aslan's grace, perhaps he would be the first to leave. Lucy would urge him never to give up hope, and he could just see her earnest face and hear the encouragement in her tone. Thinking of his joyful, faithful sister warmed him, and he turned his attention to other mysteries.

Murano. The young man had never heard the name mentioned before, not even as a legend. But then, if the island could not be found, maybe it was not such a stretch to assume no one in the Seven Islands knew of it, although, even if they did, missing and possibly enchanted islands were not subjects that came up in general, every day conversation. He certainly had never thought to inquire after such things.

What had the woman said? Not since she was a small child had they been in contact with the outside world. He guessed her age to be in the middle years, not more than forty summers at the most. So what then, thirty years? That would put Narnia towards the end of its Great Winter and still under the Witch's control, with the rest of the countries – Calormen, Archenland, the Lone Islands, and the Seven Islands – complete question marks for the most part. He wondered what had caused Murano and its people to become lost to geography, memory, and time in such a drastic way. _Have __patience and the answers will unfold_, came Susan's calm voice, an oft-repeated phrase from many past conversations.

Heartened by his memories, Peter followed the woman and her child through the verdant undergrowth to a wild tangle of blackberry bushes. There her son was picking in a very scattershot fashion, tossing the berries hastily towards the basket without looking.

"Robin, you must take more care," she said, moving to the adjoining bushes, "Or there will be no pie, for want of berries."

The young boy stuck out his lower lip and squinted, and the High King suddenly quashed the urge to issue a stern reproof for such disrespect. "Easy there," he thought, "He's only a whelp and not one of your soldiers." Still, he stepped up behind the woman, hoping that his looming presence would add some weight to her words.

"Madam," he said then, letting his bundle drop to the forest floor, "Will you allow me?" He reached out questioningly for her basket, and she gave him such a skeptical look that he withdrew his hand partway.

"I would very much like to help," he continued, pouring on all the charm he could and realizing his dubious appearance was probably nullifying half of it. "It is the least I can do after frightening you and your children so."

She raised an eyebrow and then laughed a little. "Aye, indeed, sir, you did give us a scare. But let us drop the fancy names – each time I hear you say 'madam,' I wonder who it is you're addressing. I am Carvaca. This is Muriel," she touched the little girl's head, "and this is Robin."

The young man bowed as though he were in the Great Hall itself. "You do me great honor. My name is Peter."

At this, the little girl peeped around her mother's skirts and regarded him solemnly with large hazel eyes. "Are you really a knight?" she whispered.

Peter took up the basket and nodded. "Yes," he said, feeling rather foolish as shy happiness lit her face.

"Have you ever killed a dragon, sir?" she asked, and there was such hope in her countenance that Peter felt even worse having to shake his head no.

"I'm afraid I'm not a terribly good knight, even if I have the title," he said regretfully, "I have not slain a dragon."

Muriel looked so disappointed that Peter knelt and placed his right fist at his left shoulder, meeting her gaze squarely. "I may yet meet one," he said gravely, "and if I ever do, mi'lady, I swear by the Lion, I will bring you his head."

The little girl beamed and gave a very awkward curtsey, and with an answering smile, the High King stood and turned to the bushes, ignoring Carvaca's bemused expression. He began to hunt for the small berries nestled between the green leaves, and she joined him after showing her daughter where to look.

The four of them picked in silence for a little while, with Carvaca occasionally reprimanding Robin when he ate more berries than he put in the basket or comforting Muriel when a thorn pricked her small finger. The sunlight began to lance through the tree branches in slanted stripes as afternoon wore on towards early evening, and eventually, Carvaca dropped a berry with finality onto what was by now a much larger heap.

"I do believe that is enough," she said, and Robin gave a hoarse cheer.

"It's about time!" he cried, "Can I go now? I wanted to go down to the beach."

His mother shook her head, her brown curls bouncing on her shoulders. "I'm sorry, my love, but it's too late. We need to head back before dusk."

"Awwww, Momma," he began to whine, but Carvaca held up a warning finger.

"None of that now," she said firmly, "Or you'll be fetching water for the rest of the week. I mean it, Robin. Take your basket and start back – we'll be right behind you."

The young boy gave one last huff of displeasure but did as he was told, and his mother watched him for a few minutes before turning her attention back to Peter, who picked up his bundle and slung it over his shoulder again. Indecision crept back into her brown eyes, but he said nothing, not wishing to push.

"Well, Sir Peter," she said, taking hold of the berry basket, "We come to it at last."

She paused and then took a deep breath. "You are welcome to stay with my family if you can stomach us. We don't have much, but we would be happy to share with you until you can manage on your own."

At these words, melancholy descended upon the young man's shoulders like a heavy cape. For a few short moments, he had been able to put aside the trouble, pain, and heartache of the last twenty-four hours – not to mention the past week – and forget his predicament in the simple joy of completing a task. He was caught between a rock and a hard place, however, and had nowhere to go, and the prospect of spending the night on his own did not seem very appealing. _Would you rather stay outside in a strange forest alone and unarmed and let the boogey man get you?_ said Edmund's voice in his head, the sarcastic tone one he remembered well. _I didn't think you were that idiotic, Peter._

The High King made a small bow. "I do not deserve your kindness, Carvaca, but I will accept your offer. I can say with assurance that I will not be a burden to you or the others in your village."

She shrugged and took Muriel's hand, heading off into the undergrowth. "There is always wood to be hewn and water to be drawn." Glancing back over her shoulder, she managed a small smile. "And berries to be picked."

After avoiding a fallen tree and a snarl of brambles, they struck what to Peter seemed a very vague path, but the woman appeared to know exactly where she was going, so he trudged along willingly behind her. His feet were starting to protest their rough treatment, and weariness was beginning to wrap clinging arms of velvet about him – miraculous healing or not, he had been flat on his back for almost a week and was already going out of practice. He grumbled to himself - it was disgusting how quickly the hard conditioning of campaigning and its deprivations deteriorated.

Silence reigned, broken only by the noises of a forest settling in for the night, and the High King was left alone with his thoughts while they walked. He was still burning with curiosity about Murano and what had happened to cut it off from the world, but he judged that now was not the time to ask. He kept his head up and his gaze moving and watched their progress as best he could while making sure the occasional root or stone protruding from the earth didn't cause him to stumble or stub his toes.

After a bit, the trees gradually thinned and the light increased, and the three of them came abruptly out of the woods into the open. Before them a low valley opened up, the path snaking down along the river and branching off through fields of what looked to be various grains – wheat mostly, and some barley, corn, and rye. The forest bounded the valley on all sides, closing in like an advancing army, but Peter could see the village not far beyond the fields, a collection of roughly twenty cottages, thatched and oft-repaired, with lazy coils of smoke drifting from chimneys. The smell of burning peat reached him faintly, and with it came dim memories of other times and another place. He shook himself slightly and tightened his grip on the blanket.

A goodly way past the village, the ground rose sharply, and the young man blinked and looked again, not quite believing his eyes. A castle of sorts stood there, tall and imposing and made of frowning gray stone. Four towers connected by four walls rose into the purpling sky – forming something of a square – and although banners flew from each of the towers, he could not see if any device was worked upon them. If there were windows in the towers, no lights shone from them to mark their places, but he could see a large gate in the facing wall, though it was tightly shut.

He realized that he had stopped short and was gaping when Carvaca and Muriel halted their progress and turned to look back at him. "What in Aslan's name is a castle doing here?" he asked, nearly stammering he was so astonished.

Carvaca smiled nervously. "That is the home of our Lady," she replied, and there was a curious note to her voice. Peter failed to hear this, however, as he was too busy picking his jaw up from the ground where it had fallen.

"Ah…um…hmm," he swallowed with some difficulty, "and who is this Lady of whom you speak?" He tore his attention from the castle to see a flush creeping up Carvaca's neck.

"Our protector," she responded after an odd pause and turned away, continuing to walk down the path into the valley.

Muriel remained for just a moment, chewing on her index finger, looking back into Peter's incredulous blue eyes. "She's a fairy," she said softly, taking the fingers out of her mouth long enough to speak, and then her mother tugged her along.

Well, well. Things were just getting curiouser and curiouser, as Lucy would say. He supposed he shouldn't be quite so surprised at the appearance of a castle, as he already felt rather permanently detached from reality with all that had happened so far. That was the trouble with adventures such as this though – one never knew what was going to pop up next.

Knowing he couldn't stand staring for the rest of the night, Peter hitched his bundle up again and resumed following Carvaca and Muriel as they wound their way through the fields towards the village. As they passed the nodding heads of grain, he noticed that they were spindly and thin and quite sickly looking. Although he would be the first to admit he did not understand one jot about farming, even he could see that something was wrong with them. Lion's mane, what _was_ this place?

The High King stifled his bewilderment as they drew near the first of the cottages, wanting to see how the wind blew before giving in and pouring forth a flood of queries. Robin had apparently been spreading the word of their arrival, for people were coming out of doorways, peering out of windows, and tailing along behind, staring, whispering, and pointing. Carvaca's shoulders hunched with tension, but she went on, trying her best to ignore the attention.

Finally they came to a stop before a particularly tumble-down cottage, and the crowd with them gathered around in a semi-circle. Carvaca made to enter, but a strident voice halted her on the doorstep.

"All right, now, Carvaca," it said, "What in the name of heaven and earth is this?"

The woman handed Muriel the berry basket and shooed her inside, and then she faced her friends and neighbors. Peter saw she was trembling slightly, and he moved in front of her, letting his bundle slide to the ground. "I have been shipwrecked here on your island," he said, standing tall and resolute, showing no fear, letting his voice carry to the edges of the rapidly growing group of people.

"But who are you? How did you get here? What do you want?" The questions flew fast and furious, the expressions wary and suspicious.

"We came upon him in the forest," Carvaca interjected, "He is a knight of the realm and has lost all he has."

"That still doesn't answer the important question, Carvaca," said a squat older lady who had pushed her way to the front of the group and now stood with her arms folded, looking Peter over with shrewd eyes. "How did he get here? This place, where no one has come for so many years?"

She stepped forward and craned her neck back to scrutinize him, and suddenly her nostrils flared and her eyes widened. "A knight, pah," she spat at his feet, distrust lacing her tone. "You stink of enchantments."

The High King was taken aback, and automatically his hand moved up to touch the bandaging wound about his chest. Several tense seconds crawled by before he responded. "Perhaps," he said as mildly as he could manage, wanting to diffuse her rancor before it infected public opinion, "but I am no sorcerer, madam. You have my word on that."

The old woman humphed and continued to glare at him, but Peter returned her gaze calmly and she looked away at last. "Nothing good will come of this if you take him in, Carvaca!" she called as a parting shot and rudely shoved people aside to leave the crowd.

"Does Devon know of this?" another voice asked, and Carvaca shook her head.

"He does not," she replied, "but I know my husband would insist that I make this stranger welcome."

"Would he, now?" said another villager snidely. Carvaca flamed red.

"He would indeed, Loran," she said tersely. "Now if you'll excuse us, I have supper to prepare." She turned on her heel and entered the cottage, pausing long enough to motion Peter inside. As he went in and shut the door behind them, he caught a brief glimpse of a neat row of black birds sitting calmly on the cottage roof across the way and staring at him intently with shiny, beady eyes.


	12. Measure Every Grief

**Disclaimer: **Don't own squat when it comes to Narnia (ok, except the books and the merchandise I've purchased). So there.  
**AN:** I'm baaaack! And with an extrey long chappie, too. Hopefully it will make up for the wait (thanks for your patience!). Let me know!

* * *

**X**. _Measure Every Grief_

Lucy fastened her cloak around her shoulders and gave her broad-brimmed hat a firming tug before she opened the cabin door and stepped out onto the deck of the _Atropos_. She knew Edmund was around somewhere, and she wanted to be with him instead of alone in her quarters, where the temptation to slide further into grief and despair might prove too compelling. At least the brisk sea air was crisp and bracing, and she inhaled deeply, glad to be finally on the move and doing something to find Peter – regardless of whether he was among the quick or the dead.

The three monarchs had discussed things at length after recovering from the initial shock of Stormcloud's news, and they had decided that Edmund should sail north and recover the _Indy_'_s_ survivors, while Susan would handle diplomatic duties at the Cair. Lucy insisted that she go along with her brother. She put it forth that she wanted to be on hand with her cordial in case any of the sailors were terribly wounded or if the High King were to be found, and while that was truth, she mostly wanted to be out and active and away from the castle. She thought if she had to stay there another night and drown in her memories, she would go mad. Susan had given her consent, and so the two youngest sovereigns had set out in Edmund's flagship as soon as they could manage it.

The winds had proven favorable thus far, and the captain of the _Atropos_, a hearty sailor from Galma who had been in Edmund's service since the beginningof their reign, advised that they should pass the Seven Islands and reach the survivors their second morning out. Lucy looked up into the nearly cloudless blue above, watching the ivory sails billowing with the wind and her brother's green flag with its snarling wolf's head crest snapping and fluttering from the fighting top. She rather enjoyed being at sea and each time thought she didn't sail quite often enough, but now the usual excitement tasted dull and bitter in her mouth.

She sniffed, and suddenly a delighted smile crossed her face. So much for being melodramatic – Edmund would be very insulted indeed if she ever described the aroma of his favorite blend of tobacco as dull and bitter. Though he had become quite the connoisseur of various blends and pipes, he generally smoked mostly when he was deeply troubled or thinking hard. While Susan usually preferred he keep to his study or the outdoors during those occasions, the last several days he'd been going about the Cair in a regular cloud, and she had remained silent.

The youngest queen whirled and ran to the stairs leading up onto the poop deck, and there she saw her brother silhouetted against the clear sky, leaning against the railing, fragrant smoke going up in little wreathing puffs and blowing back over the ship.

"Edmund!" she called, hastening to join him, and the young king turned, taking the long-stemmed pipe from his mouth and giving her a hug.

"Good morning, Lu," he said, his voice a pleasant rumble against her ear. Lucy gave him a quick kiss on the cheek in greeting and then stepped back.

"Good morning," she replied as he placed the bit of the pipe once more between his teeth and propped himself against the polished rail. The shadows had not left his eyes, but for now he had gained mastery over his grief and was functioning at least outwardly as his usual calm and efficient self. He drew on the smoldering tobacco and blew several smoke rings that disintegrated immediately in the sharp wind.

"Sleep well?" he asked laconically.

"Yes, on the whole," Lucy said, neglecting to mention the nightmares that had kept her tossing and turning – terrible dreams of Peter lost, wounded, alone, in great pain, and dying – or the worst and most probable, dead already.

"Me too," Edmund said in a voice that told her he heard exactly what she left unsaid and had shared the experience. Unable to stop herself, the young queen slipped her arm beneath his and pressed herself to his side. He squeezed her shoulder in return, and they remained so for quite some time, looking out over the ship's churning wake.

"Do you think we'll find him, Ed?" she asked finally, and the young king mused for a moment, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

"I don't know, Lu," he replied. "I pray we do. I trust that Aslan will not leave us wondering, regardless."

Just then, a sharp call pierced the air from the sailor stationed in the fighting top, and both monarchs turned sharply, their hearts beating faster with anticipation.

"Men in the water!" the sailor cried, "Just off the port bow!"

The ship began to come alive with activity, and while Edmund went down to the deck, Lucy remained on the poop and stood on tiptoe the better to see over the side. Not far from the _Atropos_, she could make out the dark shapes of a make-shift raft and ship's boat bobbing in the sea, along with larger bits of wreckage, and she breathed a prayer of thanks that the weather had remained clement. The sailors worked quickly to lower the ship's boat into the water, and Edmund and several others climbed down to it. Glad exclamations from the survivors mingled with the exhortations of the rescuers as they were brought back to the ship.

Lucy checked that her cordial was hanging over her shoulder on its red leather strap and descended the steps to see the first of the _Indefatigable's_ sailors lifted aboard with the sling that had been specially fashioned for this instance. They were extricated from the tough canvas and wrapped immediately in warm blankets, and the young queen went quickly to see if her services were needed. Pale and shivering, the survivors looked up at her with dull eyes, and while some retained the wits to address her respectfully, their manner was entirely broken and defeated.

"It's our fault, your majesty," said one, "It's our shame, and we shall not forget it."

"Nonsense," Lucy replied, accepting a wet cloth from an _Atropos_ sailor and using it to sponge away the salt encrusted on skin and in hair. "Being attacked by pirates is hardly something you could have foreseen or prevented under the circumstances."

"But the High King, your majesty," he said in anguish, and another of the survivors wailed, low and desolate. "The High King is lost…lost… And it was us that let him down…"

Lucy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from possibly saying something she would regret later and went on wringing out the cloth and refreshing it in a bucket of fresh water placed at her elbow. "Hush now," she said, swallowing a hard lump of tears and trying to remind herself that these men had been through a terrible ordeal and were sorrowing as well. "We will grieve if we must, but for now we hold out hope. Aslan may yet restore his highness to us."

Murmurs rose, along with reverent whispers of "Hail Queen Lucy, the Valiant, the Faithful…" Lucy heard this adoration but did not respond, for as she moved among the row of bodies lying there on the deck of the _Atropos_, a fiery sensation began to burn in her breast. Anger. At the pirates, who did this reprehensible thing to her people, at her brother, for getting himself horribly wounded in the first place, and finally, worst of all, at Aslan himself, for allowing this severe trial. This last resentment frightened her, as she knew the Great Lion did not maliciously send evil things their way, and he did not deserve her ire. Still, though, the feeling remained, and looking over the survivors who had served her brother and nearly died on his account, she felt it grow, cancerous.

Another shout brought the young queen to her senses, and she looked up to see sailors working the sling over to the deck. The body within was limp and unresponsive as they rolled it out, and Lucy made her way to them, sensing that the cordial might be needed in this case.

"This one's bad off," said the sailor who had been assisting her, bending down and patting a blanket around the man's shoulders. "Looks like he's had his eyes gouged out, he does." He shuddered and stood. "Poor chap."

Lucy knelt down and peered at the man's face and her stomach constricted unpleasantly. Although she had seen much worse on the battlefield, he was indeed badly off – ragged strips of what used to be eyelids framed empty sockets, which were engorged with oozing tissue. Exposure to the elements had not done him any good, and livid red lines of blood poisoning streaked his bruised and swollen face, radiating outwards from ruin of his eyes. The pain must have been tremendously immobilizing, and she couldn't help but wonder how the rest of them had kept this one alive.

She reached immediately for her cordial, bringing the strap down off her shoulder and uncorking the bottle in one smooth, swift, practiced motion. The delicious smell of the fireflower juice suddenly pervaded the air, bringing a breath of light and lifting the spirits of those who were near. Lucy inhaled deeply, taking momentary refreshment from the delightful scent, and she leaned forward and carefully dripped a generous bead of the cordial in each eye socket.

The magic worked at once, as it always did, and the signs of infection and the swelling faded slowly away. The sockets remained empty, but the man's breathing evened out and deepened. Lucy sent her attendant sailor off to find a soft cloth to bind over his eyes. As she waited, the young woman looked closer at her patient and saw that she recognized him now that his face had returned somewhat to its regular appearance.

"Tristam!" she breathed, placing a hand on the physician's shoulder. "Oh, Tristam!" The Archenlander stirred beneath her touch, and with a groan, he came around, bringing his hands up feebly to his face.

"No, no," Lucy said, taking them gently, "You mustn't, Tristam."

He went very still at the sound of her voice, and his breath hitched slightly. ""Your majesty," he said quietly, "If I may presume that it is indeed your majesty, the Queen Lucy."

The young woman nodded before she remembered he could not see her. "Yes, I am she."

"I am a physician, your majesty – a fact of which you are quite aware. I will take care, but please allow me." Tristam disengaged his hands from hers and placed his fingers against his skin before moving them little by little upward. He did not actually touch the sunken pits, but merely brushed over the empty spaces. His face worked for a moment, and Lucy felt her ever-present tears begin to overflow and trickle slowly down her cheeks.

"I am so sorry, Tristam," she said, and the thickness in her voice must have alerted him to her sorrow, for he let his hands fall abruptly back to his sides and his lips tightened.

"Your majesty," he said tersely, "Save your pity for someone who deserves it. My abysmal foolishness and conceit have led to this tragedy, and I have only received my just rewards."

"I can hardly believe that," said Lucy, as the sailor returned to her side and held out a swath of black cloth. "I have something to bind your eyes," she told Tristam, "Will you let me help you with it?"

"I am able, your highness." The physician sat up, wavering slightly, and reached out with his right hand. The young queen placed the cloth in his open palm and watched as he placed it across the bridge of his nose and tied the ends at the back of his head. He let his hands fall limply back into his lap and sat hunched forward, bowed.

"I thank you, your grace, for healing me," he said, "I am afraid you will come to regret it."

Lucy took a breath to speak, but Tristam abruptly turned away from her. She felt a spark of irritation at his rudeness, but a hand on her shoulder interrupted her. Edmund stood behind her, his face grave.

"Palomnus has also been rescued," he said, and he jerked his chin at the figure being brought aboard. "He's the last."

With one final look at Tristam, who had withdrawn further, both physically and mentally, Lucy got to her feet and went with her brother to where the faun was just being helped into a blanket. He was absolutely grey with exhaustion and trembled with the effort of holding himself upright, but when he saw his king and queen, he made an attempt at a bow.

"My sovereigns," he said, "You have no idea what a wonderful sight you are to my weary and saddened eyes."

"We are relieved to see you as well, Palomnus," said Edmund, "We are anxious to hear what you would tell us when you feel recovered from your trial."

"Yes, the full details of our most enlightening experience can wait. For the moment, however, it will suffice to say that his majesty the High King may yet be alive." Palomnus punctuated his words with a watery sneeze.

Lucy felt her heart jump wildly in a fit of excitement and hope, but Edmund betrayed nothing of his emotions.

"Indeed?" he asked calmly enough, but his sister heard unmistakable strain undercutting the blandness.

"Verily, your majesty," the faun said, "We hid him as well as we could in one of the _Indefatigable's_ ship's boats, and it was put over the side by those maggots. I saw it drifting away, your highnesses, but I was unable to keep close watch on it, being rather consumed at the time with the small matter of our survival."

The air fairly electrified. Glancing over, the queen saw her brother had gone almost rigid with tension. His brown eyes blazed.

"Then we must act quickly," he said, his words clipped, "Rest now, good Palomnus. Your faithfulness will be rewarded."

He turned on his heel and strode swiftly back along the deck, ignoring the other survivors, and went into his cabin, shutting the door with slightly more force than was necessary. Lucy heaved a short sigh and followed after, feeling bent almost double with the weight of the worry on her shoulders.

She found the king pacing in the small but lavishly appointed cabin, coming up against his bunk and spinning, walking the ten or so paces to the other side of the room and spinning again. He was biting his lip and muttering imprecations, and when Lucy stepped right in front of him, he nearly ran her over.

"Get out of here, Lucy," he growled. "I don't need your help."

"Then what do you need?" she demanded, her hands on her hips and her feet planted. "To go out and wreak havoc? To chop those pirates to bits? To satisfy your blood lust?"

"Yes!" Edmund roared, facing her squarely, his own hands balled into fists. "Lion's mane, sister, they've most likely murdered our brother! The **High King** of **Narnia**! **And I wasn't there to stop them**!"

"You think you could have stopped this? Edmund, you idiot!" the queen yelled back shrilly, "You absolute, blithering, dolt!"

Edmund took a step forward, and the expression on his face was terrible. "Name calling does not become you, Queen Lucy," he said, and now his voice was low, deadly. His sister paled but stood her ground, and they glared at one another, breathing hard.

There came a sudden golden flash, and a delicious smell, wild and joyful and strong, filled the air. The two turned to see Aslan himself, who filled the small cabin and was bathed in radiance like the sun. Light broke scintillating into tiny, brilliant pieces upon his mane and went dancing about the room as small rainbows. Edmund and Lucy immediately sank to their knees and bowed their heads, terribly ashamed to be caught quarrelling so.

"Aslan," Edmund said, looking up into the fathomless, wise eyes of the Lion with the attitude of someone starved for oxygen, although his cheeks were still pink with embarrassment. "I am so _very_ glad to see you again."

Aslan bent his head and touched his rough tongue to the king's forehead. "Peace, Edmund," he said, and while not especially loud, the rich, resonant tones of his voice made Lucy tremble. "All shall be well, but vengeance must be done in my name, not your own. Such desire does not become you."

The young man sighed heavily, and it seemed that the taut anxiety and dangerous darkness he had been carrying around with him drained from his body with the exhale. He slumped forward slightly, dark lashes fluttering closed against his cheeks. "Yes, Aslan," he said quietly. "I know. I'm sorry. I do trust you to take care of us."

The Great Lion looked next to Lucy, who blushed scarlet and turned her head away, the dishonor of both her earlier and present anger rending at her heart. "I'm sorry, Aslan," she said, the tears flowing once more. "I'm sorry. Please…" and she met his calm gaze, her lips quivering. "I was wrong. Forgive me..."

Aslan opened his mouth and simply breathed, and the warm, soothing breath enveloped her. "Child," he said, "Does your station as queen protect you or the ones you love from the storms others suffer?"

"No, Aslan," Lucy whispered.

"Following me does not mean you will be delivered of all grief or heartache, Dear Heart," he said, "But be comforted, for I have passed before you through all things."

"Our brother, sir…" she managed, nearly drowning. "Please…" It felt as though a deep well-spring of agony had opened up inside her, and she could not seem to stop crying.

"Peter is mine." Aslan said with the hint of a growl, "As you are mine. You are always in my care – each one of you." He gently licked her forehead as well, and she felt the overwhelming, paradoxical delight and terror of his presence slowly overpower her distress. "Be at peace."

The young queen wiped her eyes and offered a soggy smile. "Thank you, Aslan," she said, "I'm afraid I've been rather hysterical."

"Please," Edmund asked then, "Is Peter still alive?"

Aslan regarded him for a moment. "Yes," he said finally. Edmund buried his face his hands, and Lucy sensed the tears threatening to fall again. She clamped down ruthlessly and instead allowed her exultation to propel her to her feet. She darted forward and threw her arms as far as they would go around Aslan's neck and buried her face in his mane.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you," she breathed, and she felt the Great Lion laughing softly.

"You are welcome, Dear Heart," he said, "but you cannot linger. You will not find him in the sea." He paused, and Edmund abruptly shut his mouth before he asked the question. "You must return to Cair Paravel. Susan is waiting for you, and she has what you need to begin your search."

Lucy stepped back and took Edmund's hand. He folded his larger fingers around her slender ones and pressed them tightly.

"Understand, my children," Aslan said gravely, "Although Peter lives, things are far from certain. You must move swiftly, but with care."

The king nodded. "Yes, Aslan," he responded, "We will."

There was approval in the Lion's eyes, and he bowed his great head. "Remember I am with you," he said, and then as suddenly as he had come, he was gone.


	13. The Song of Job

**Disclaimer:** Okay, at this point I think everyone knows I don't own anything when it comes to Narnia. If you really think I do, you're nutters. So I'm going to go ahead and dispense with these little notices in future chapters. You're all probably tired of reading them anyway...

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**XI**. _The Song of Job_

"Welcome to our humble home, Sir Peter," Carvaca said, waving a hand, "What's ours is yours."

The knight glanced around him, and Carvaca felt a momentary pang of shame at the poverty of their surroundings. She did her best, but it was often all she could manage to keep it presentable. They stood upon a plain, but well-swept dirt floor she and Muriel tried to fancy up by tracing patterns in its hard-packed surface. Against the back wall stood a blackened fireplace, which was flanked by a sturdy worktable beneath one of the small windows – her kitchen area. Dried fruits, vegetables, and herbs hung by strings from the rafters above the table, while three sleeping pallets – one larger and two smaller – sat as near the fireplace as they could be without harm. Muriel was sitting on the smallest bed, quietly playing with a tattered cornhusk doll and peeking surreptitiously at them from beneath her eyelashes.

Peter lowered his bundle to the floor and met Carvaca's eyes squarely. "My thanks are yours," he said, and there was sincerity in his voice. "But please, if my presence will cause you trouble, I would be happy to stay elsewhere."

"No!" she blurted hastily, raising her hands in protest.

The knight raised an eyebrow, just the tiniest bit. "Your husband will not be angry?" he asked, and Carvaca hesitated, thinking of what Devon would say when he came home from the smithy, which would be soon. Peter must have seen the look on her face, and a stubborn one entered his own expression.

"Pa'll be _furious_!" interjected Robin from where he stood at the worktable, washing the berries in a battered pan of water.

"Enough, Robin!" his mother scolded sternly. "I meant it when I said he would want me to give you food and shelter," she said to Peter, "It just might take him a bit to…remember his generosity."

"Like the others here," Peter said, and a thoughtful expression chased away the intractable set to his jaw.

Carvaca went to her son and began to help him with the fruit. "Don't be upset at them, please," she said. "They're just…it's been so long since anyone has come here. They're curious and, well," she sighed, "they've never had the best manners to begin with."

"They've a right to be suspicious," the knight said, shrugging slightly. "I certainly do not hold it against them."

He knelt on one knee and opened the bundle, rummaging around inside and coming up with several smaller packages. "Here," he said, bringing them over to the worktable, "Let me contribute to dinner."

Robin frowned and poked tentatively at one of the packages. "What is it?" he asked.

"Ship's biscuit, rock-hard as it should be, and dried fruit, perfectly aged," came the response.

Robin pursed his lips skeptically. "Ship's biscuit?" he asked, and Peter took out a wafer and handed it to the boy with a small smirk on his lips.

"Let's see you get through that," he said, and when Robin bit down firmly and was subsequently repulsed by the solid dough, the knight chuckled. "I'd let it soak for a good hour before you try again," he advised, and Carvaca smiled at her son's incredulous look.

"I didn't know anything to eat could be that_ hard_!" he exclaimed and gnawed at the biscuit again. "You really do eat it?"

Peter nodded, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Don't break a tooth," Carvaca said, cautioning, and Robin tossed his head, moving off to his own bed where he sat and continued to try and make headway.

She looked back at Peter and was surprised to catch a flicker of pain crossing his face. "Are you well, sir?" she asked, suddenly concerned.

He reached up and pinched his temples with thumb and forefinger. "Yes," he replied, and Carvaca got the impression he was telling himself as well as her. Taking the hand away, he smiled at her and motioned towards the berries. "I'll finish those," he said, and she relinquished her place at the table.

"Thank you," she said. She cast him another worried glance, but whatever troubled him seemed to have passed, for his demeanor belied only concentration on his task. Going to the fireplace, she swung the soup pot over within reach and stared at it blankly for a moment. What would they eat? There was no meat to be had. They had consumed the last of the venison only days ago, and hunting trips of late had been unproductive. Carvaca sighed, a short, dissatisfied huff. Vegetable stew it would have to be, although her children would not be pleased, and she was terribly embarrassed to have to set such a poor meal before her guest.

"I need to visit the garden," she said, standing, "Robin, I want you to run to the well and draw more water."

"Now?" he asked, still worrying at the ship's biscuit.

"Yes, now," his mother said, emptying one of the baskets into the other with Peter's help. She waited for her son to take the soup pot and then herded him out the door. She was glad to see the crowd had dispersed – no one was to be seen in the narrow lane. Robin trotted off towards the village square and the communal well, and Carvaca went around her cottage to the back, where a small plot held her family's allotment of vegetables. She bent and began searching amongst the scraggly plants for anything she could find.

* * *

Inside, Peter had paused in his chore as soon as Carvaca and Robin had gone and was now braced against the wooden table, hands on either side of the berry pan. He wasn't sure where the headache had come from, but it felt as though a company of dwarves was hammering away behind his eyes, and the severe spikes of pain were beginning to be an extreme annoyance. He gritted his teeth and told himself it wasn't nearly as bad as having all his ribs broken and went back to rinsing the berries. 

Muted footsteps came up behind him and there was a tentative tug at his trousers. "Sir knight?"

The High King looked down to see Muriel staring back up at him, clutching her doll. "Yes, lady fair?" he asked.

"Are you sick?" she questioned, and Peter wasn't sure whether he should be amazed at her perceptiveness or irritated with his own transparency.

He gave her a small smile. "No, milady," he said, "You needn't worry for me."

She appeared satisfied with his answer and stood on tiptoe to peer onto the table. "Watcha' doing?" she asked. "Can I help?"

Peter's smile became genuine, and he cast about for something she could do. His eyes came to rest on the berries floating in the pan of water, and he looked back down at her. "Is there a bowl for these clean berries? You can dry them for me."

Muriel pointed at the shelf to his left, which held trenchers, a bowl, and a pitcher. "Pick me up," she said, putting her doll down, and the High King took her gently around the waist.

"Milady's wish is my command," he said and carefully lifted her towards the shelf. She reached out and had just pulled the brown crockery bowl into her arms when the door opened.

"So, 'tis true indeed," a deep voice said gruffly, and Robin replied, "I said so, didn't I?"

Startled, Peter lowered the Muriel quickly to the floor and turned, feeling a wrenching in his stomach that had only partly to do with what was sure to be another confrontation. One of the largest men he had ever seen outside of giant country stood in the doorway, his massive arms folded forbiddingly across an equally massive chest.

The dwarves in his head began to hammer harder, and Peter reached desperately for the diplomatic serenity that came so easily to Susan and Edmund. He bowed, but this time it was sharp, short, and lacked entirely the romanticism he had given Muriel earlier. "Good evening, sir," he said.

"Who th' bloody blue blazes are you?" asked the man, not moving from his place. "And what're you doing in my house, with my wife and children?"

Sweat beaded on Peter's forehead, and he blinked, swallowing hard and forcing the pain somewhere deep inside. "Your wife," he said, choosing his words cautiously, "has granted hospitality to one who has been lost. I was shipwrecked here on this island, although I am now aware that should be impossible."

The man humphed, a rolling rumble. "You do talk fancy, dont'cheh?" he said, and Peter was about to make a reply when Carvaca appeared in the space between the man-mountain and the doorframe.

"Devon!" she exclaimed, putting a hand on his arm, and her husband moved into the house. She came in with him and shut the door, hurrying over to the worktable and placing her basket of vegetables upon it. There was a heartbeat of excruciatingly uncomfortable silence, and then Carvaca cleared her throat. "This is Sir Peter," she said, and the High King almost laughed at the futility of it all. He didn't think an introduction – and that one in particular – was going to improve his standing.

"That so?" Devon said with the arching of one black eyebrow, rubbing his bearded chin. "Sir, eh?"

Robin turned from the fireplace where he had taken the soup pot. "Says he's a knight," he said, skepticism infusing his tone.

"He _is_ a knight!" Muriel said angrily from where she stood in front of Peter, still clasping the bowl to her chest. "He _is_, Poppa!"

"From what I hear tell, he's more likely familiar with magic," said the smith dourly, "Black magic at that."

Carvaca flushed. "You've been talking to Riena," she said accusingly, "Well that old crone wouldn't know magic if it bit her! She wasn't much help the last time was she?"

"She did stop by th' smithy," her husband admitted calmly, "and she's far wiser than you think, my love."

"She knows _nothing_!" Carvaca cried, stamping her foot in a controlled, yet savage motion. "How do we know he's not here to help us?"

Devon scowled and unfolded his arms, standing taller. "And how do you know he is, Carvaca?" he returned, his voice rising. "We don't need another of Her kind here. Most likely destroy us all."

Muriel burst into tears, and her mother went to her, taking the bowl and holding her close, shushing her quietly, while Robin, sitting cross-legged on his bed, rolled his eyes. "But can we take the chance, Devon?" Carvaca asked after a moment, looking up at her husband, and she had gone very still. "Can we turn him away without knowing? Refuse him decency and hospitality, when he might be able to do what none of the rest of us can?"

There was another space of silence, and then Devon turned to regard Peter. There was something glinting in his black eyes that the young man did not like at all. Carvaca must have seen it also, for she paled. "No, Devon," she said, shaking her head, "No."

Her husband ignored her, and his gaze bored into Peter's. "You can't stay here," he said, and his wife cried out, adding her voice to the wail Muriel began afresh.

The High King was not terribly surprised at the man's words, but he was taken aback by the jolt of anger he himself felt upon hearing them spoken. If this smith knew to whom he was speaking so callously… Resisting the urge to spit out his reply, he straightened his shoulders and raised his chin. "Very well," he said, "I will not be the cause of further discord in your household."

His head pounding and his stomach giving another vicious twist of ravenous nausea, Peter went to his bundle of supplies and retied the blanket ends, lifting it onto his shoulder. Carvaca was watching him with a miserable expression, Muriel had not ceased sobbing, and even Robin looked slightly sorry. Only Devon stood as solid as a rock, his arms folded once more. "You'll find th' ground nearest th' river is th' softest," he said, and Carvaca looked at him sharply.

Peter put his hand on the door latch. "Thank you, madam," he said, "I will remember your kindness." He gave a courtly little bow to Muriel, who regarded him with soggy hazel eyes. "Milady."

He opened the door and stepped out into the rapidly gathering darkness, seeing with some gratitude that the black birds were no longer at their perch on the opposite rooftop. A large hand fastened around his arm, and the strength in it brought him immediately to a halt. The young man swung around to face the smith, who smiled without mirth. "This ain't nothing personal, _Sir_ Peter," he said, "but if you _are_ a bad seed, whatever you really are - wherever you come from, I won't have you endangering my family."

Meeting his challenge, the High King responded with icy formality. "I take your meaning, sir," he replied, "but you need have no fear of me as I am now."

Devon narrowed his gaze. "If that's true," he said, "then we'll see you in th' morning. If not, then may you rest in peace." And he shut the door quite firmly in Peter's face.

The young man stood there for a few minutes, breathing hard, his eyes screwed shut against the pain in his head and the anger in his heart, his hands shaking. When he had gathered his composure, he set off down the lane, wending his way towards the weedy, muddy smell of the river. No one was about, and the village seemed deserted, but he could sense the people watching him, crowded around a window, perhaps, or even peering out through cracks. "Very well," he thought stubbornly, "I will show them how a Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion behaves. Sorcerer indeed!"

Peter passed through the silent village square, and after coming upon a dead-end amidst tumble-down cottages, backtracking, taking another lane, running into a second dead-end, backtracking again, and taking a third lane, he finally came out into the open once more. A wide sward of dark green ran all the way to the riverbank, where several huge willows swept the ground with their trailing branches.

The moon was waxing gibbous, and the stars were out in force, giving him just enough light. There was the Hammer, his favorite constellation, just peeping above the tree line, and the familiar sight warmed him to his toes in spite of his discomfort. In a world turned upside down, it was good to see some things didn't change.

He made his way down to the willow trees, slapping at a few questing mosquitoes, and nosed about until he found a favorable patch of ground, softened with a spongy covering of moss. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground, a heavy sigh of relief escaping his lips, and cradled his throbbing head in his still shaking hands. He felt jittery, anxious, as though he wanted to crawl out of his sweaty skin – as though the core of his being had become an aching, needy black hole. "Oh, Aslan, Great Lion," he whispered, "Have mercy on your servant!" He sat in silence, listening to the symphony of crickets, the buzzing and clicking of various other insects, the cheeping and thrumming of frogs, and the whining of mosquitoes – the last a sound quite unwelcome.

Although all he wanted to do was curl into a ball and wait out this sudden illness, Peter knew he should eat something, as he hadn't had anything substantial since who knew when. Fortunately, he had kept a few packages of supplies, and so he was in the middle of forcing down more dried apricots, raisins, and apples when the fine hairs along his arms and on the back of his neck prickled and stood on end. Pausing, he looked up; Palomnus's dry voice – "Bad fortune usually comes all at once, your highness" – echoing in his thoughts. "Isn't that the truth," he muttered. Something was out there, beyond the curtain of the willow fronds, and the High King stood very slowly and peered through the feathery branches.

A murky, low-lying mist had risen, covering the ground and shining eerily in the silvery light. Dark shapes moved stealthily amongst the shifting, pearly moisture, and there were far too many of them for Peter's taste, all circled round and closing in, steadily and surely. The young man bit his lip, his heartbeat accelerating its pace to keep time with the thundering in his head. Normally he gloried in the singing tension before an upcoming fight, spoiling for the fierce, sudden release of combat unleashed, but normally he was clear-headed, had Rhindon in his fist, his warhorse, Calma, between his thighs, and hundreds of the best soldiers Narnia could field at his back.

He could hear his visitors – heavy snuffling and labored breathing, and see them – moonlight glinting off of eyes, teeth, claws. Whatever they were, they were big and undoubtedly nasty, and they were very obviously coming after him. Peter sighed. "Really, I'm becoming rather tired of this," he said aloud, and at that, with a harsh barking cry that set his teeth on edge, the mysterious monsters charged.


	14. Interlude Insomnium

_Interlude – Insomnium_

Susan woke with a start, sweat coating her brow, her mouth dry, nameless terror fluttering away into the shadows of her chamber. She lay for a moment staring up at the canopy of her soft bed, gasping in short, shallow jerks. "Peter," she breathed, a sobbing little cry, and then, composing herself, she swung her legs out from under the sheets and planted her feet firmly against the woven rug that covered the parquet floor. Her handmaiden, Willow-Wand, usually left a small pitcher of water on her bedside table, and Susan shakily poured herself a glass, gulping it down and then pouring another. This one she nursed, by now calm enough to turn the nightmare over in her mind. What she saw made her stand, throwing off the covers with a convulsive movement, and she went quickly to the window. She remained there for a very long time, staring out over the dim, star-lit expanse of the Great Eastern Ocean, her eyes unfocused and her thoughts far away.


	15. Passing the Test

_Only reapers, reaping early  
In among the bearded barley,  
Hear a song that echoes cheerly  
From the river winding clearly,  
Down to tower'd Camelot:  
And by the moon the reaper weary,  
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,  
Listening, whispers ''Tis the fairy  
Lady of Shalott.'  
+ The Lady of Shalott _by Alfred Lord Tennyson, lines 28-36.

**XII**. _Passing the Test_

Peter backed hastily into the shade of the willow and tripped over his bundle of supplies, landing flat on his back in the moss with a surprised 'oof!'. This most likely saved his life, as a black form shot over his head and, meeting with no resistance, landed with a shrieking, scrabbling splash in the river on the other side. The young man lay motionless for a split second, catching his breath, staring up into the darkness of the branches above him, his eyes wide. Was that what he thought it was, hanging there in the tree? Or was he merely hallucinating – madness catching up with him at last?

He had no more time for contemplation, for the beasts were upon him, eschewing the recklessness of their predecessor and coming at him through the willow branches, jaws wide and slashing. Adrenaline coursing through his body, Peter rolled to his stomach, gained his feet, and lunged for the tree trunk, thin lines of fire grazing his back as one set of claws razored through the bandaging. In a stroke of good luck, one he breathlessly praised on the climb up, the willow under which he had taken refuge was old and hoary, its bark thick and ridged, the huge trunk bent and split into separate, far slenderer trunks low enough for him to gain an initial foothold. "Please, Aslan," he prayed desperately, "Let them not be climbers!"

And for once, good fortune seemed to hold, as the pursuit tore into the tree with vigor, growling, spitting, uttering that terrible cry, but not following. The High King clambered higher in the section of tree he judged to be safest and leaned back against the trunk, his feet braced against the opposite branch. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, breathing hard. Blows hammered at the tree, shaking his perch, but he remained immobile. When he had recovered enough to think coherently, he moved forward and peered through the foliage for what he thought he had seen minutes before.

Moonlight lanced through the willow fronds, striking here and there upon the branches and the trunk, shifting into random patterns at the whim of the night breeze and the shaking of the tree. Peter squinted, and there it was. Ghostly luminescence played over a long, slender blade suspended from a curved branch, twisted rope looped around the grip and the tip of the scabbard. It looked to be within easy reach, and the branch from which it hung appeared sturdy enough to hold his weight. A sword. Just what he needed, when he needed it the most – easily obtainable and ripe for the taking. Just for him – only for him.

The tree shuddered again, and Peter didn't stop to think any further. His suspicion at the thing's perfectly timed appearance was rapidly swallowed up by the desire to take the fight to the monsters below. Besides, what other choice did he have? It wasn't as though he had a plethora of better options. When something crashed against the willow with enough force to shake it to its top, he moved.

It was the work of a moment to clamber across to the right branch, scale it, untie the knots, curl his fingers around the grip and lift the sword, the belt attached to the scabbard knocking against the bark. The young man shimmied back down the branch, his breath coming quicker with anticipation, the pain in his head forgotten, the shaking in his hands down to a mere tremor. He propped himself in the crook of the tree and slipped the belt about his hips, fastening the buckle and looping the extra end with a speed born of long practice. He carefully drew the blade forth, the ringing of the metal bringing a fierce smile to his lips.

Peter paused and commended his soul to Aslan by bringing the sword's cross-guard up to his forehead in a salute, and then he dropped from the branch, his voice raised in a hoarse cry and blood thrumming through his veins, surging, pushing him over the edge into full flight. He landed hard amidst the monsters and struck before they knew what was happening. This heartbeat of surprise gained him the time to run one through with a powerful thrust, and then they turned on him.

As battle frenzy took complete hold, the High King spun and twisted, always moving, his blade whirling, dancing death. He beheaded the nearest monster, warm, wet gobbets of stinking blood spattering his face. Suffering tripartite slashes across his neck and shoulders from the next, he plunged between its outstretched claws and drove the sword into its heart. Another sliced into his side simultaneously, and he whirled, cutting downward, honed steel biting deeply into the thing's skull; with a sharp jerk, he withdrew the weapon and slaughtered another threat, teeth bared, eyes aflame. His focus crystallized into bestial snarling, the thick, sickening smell of opened flesh and bone, sweat dripping into his eyes, the fierce pain of his wounds, burning muscles. Time slowed and stretched as he warmed to his work, reality narrowed to the chaos in and around him.

And then, suddenly, it was over, and nothing else leaped at him, swiped at him, or tried to take off his head. Peter stood unsteadily in the midst of heaped, steaming corpses, blinking. The earth tilted and nausea struck hard. He swallowed with difficulty, once, twice, and stared up at the moon as the madness drained from his body with the drip, drip, drip of dark blood running in rivulets from his blade. Somehow the fray had moved out into the open, onto the green sward of grass by the river, although he didn't remember consciously choosing to do so. Maybe it hadn't been his choice – in spite of the bad footing, it certainly would have been wiser to keep the willow at his back.

"_Whatever happens, never forget to wipe your sword,"_ came Aslan's gentle reminder from years past, as it always did after a fight, and the young man moved to a spot untouched by battle where he cleaned the blade on the dewy grass and sponged off the remaining gore and moisture with a handful of shredded blanket. Before he sheathed it, he held it out for a moment, feeling the heft, the balance, and looking closely at the engravings which decorated the metal and were stamped in the wrapped leather of the grip. Such things were more Edmund's specialty than his, although he did have some skill in the basics. The symbols on this sword were runes of power, that much he could tell for certain, but he could not see any further indication from whence the weapon had come or why it had been hung in the willow tree.

At this point, Peter decided, it mattered little. He had willingly taken up the sword in defense of his life, and it now belonged to him, whether for good or ill. He no longer had the mental capacity for puzzling over such things, for exhaustion crushed him in a bruising grip, and the wounds inflicted by the monsters throbbed mercilessly. No doubt the beasts' claws had been full of poison, he thought sarcastically. Wouldn't that be a delightful way to cap his misfortunes?

He stumbled down to the river's edge, finding the bank low enough for him to easily reach down and wash the rapidly crusting blood from his hands, arms, and face. The chill liquid flowing over his skin was only partially effective at stripping away the grime, but he unwound the by now filthy bandaging anyway, dredging it in the rushing water and scrubbing it as best he could. Oh, how he longed for one of Palomnus's patented baths – even in camp, as often as the faun could manage it, he had marched the young man out to an old, battered copper tub and made him soak and scrub as if his life depended on it. If he ever made it back home, Peter swore to himself he was going to steep for a week – no, make that two weeks – in the hottest, steamiest, foamiest water available and absolutely nothing, _nothing,_ was going to disturb him.

Fingers trembling with fatigue and the remnants of his adrenaline high, the High King carefully examined the wounds on his neck, arms, side, and legs. Fortunately, only two sets of the ragged, parallel slashes were fairly deep, and though they hurt like billy-oh, they weren't life threatening. He figured that he had actually gotten off rather easily for being outnumbered at the start. After wringing out the bandaging, he twisted it as tightly as he could around himself again, binding his injuries as well as he could manage. Tristam would no doubt eventually have a fit over his clumsy attempts at treatment. His headache had returned, although the overwhelming haze of weariness reduced it to a dull, thudding pain.

Slowly, the effort of putting one foot in front of the other taking up most of his concentration, Peter made his way back to the willow and parted the curtain of branches. He just about tumbled headlong in the moss, but he managed to exhibit some control and fall to his knees first, dimly seeing the irony in the fact that he now had a sword but was entirely too tired to bring it out and pray properly. "Aslan," he said thickly, "Thank you. Don't deserve it. Grateful for your mercy and your aid." And then he let go.

When the singing started, he was sprawled nearly fast asleep on his stomach, face turned to the side, mouth open, and eyes weighted shut. It came as a whisper at first, caressing and teasing his cloudy senses, and then built, low and sensual, eerie, sliding into his dreams and wrapping him in a cocoon of tingling warmth. Peter drifted, a lazy smile pulling at his lips, hearing the words but not quite understanding them, basking in the rush as it swept him from head to toe, promising untold delights. Yet beneath its siren beauty was a hint of cruelty; enmeshed in its clear, perfect tone was a wild, almost crazed undercurrent, and the High King felt a cold shadow of dread color his sleep.

"_Yes,"_ close to a hiss, enticing and sibilant, _"You are right to fear me. Such only proves your wisdom. You are indeed a worthy choice."_

"Who are you?" Peter whispered, fighting against the pull of the tide long enough to ask.

"_We will meet soon, and then you shall see,"_ came the reply, _"Oh, yes. Very soon. I am waiting for you, Sir Peter. Come, my fearless champion, and join me."_


	16. Rescue the Perishing

**AN:** (tap, tap) Is this thing on? (ahem) Well, I'm back! Took me long enough – this chapter _really_ gave me trouble – but it seems I'm not the only one slowing down. You'd think it was summertime or something. (smile) Enjoy!

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**XIII**. _Rescue the Perishing_

Grey skies promised rain as Susan stood on the Cair's quay, waiting for her royal brother and sister to disembark from the _Atropos_ with the _Indy's_ recovered survivors. The flags carrying the rampant golden lion and her royal crest snapped and fluttered above her, for the queen had expressly forbidden any displays of mourning until the reports were confirmed. The crowd of courtiers with Susan were arrayed in their usual colorful, tasteful finery, for black was simply not seen very often at all in Narnia, and few could believe it might soon become prevalent.

Susan herself was a picture of beautiful perfection, although that afternoon, she felt far from it. The skirt and long sleeves of her gown tangled heavily about her motionless limbs, propelled this way and that by crisp gusts of wind. Her long, thick hair had been arranged in an elaborate but weighty pile at the back of her head, and most of the jeweled pins used to hold it all together were digging deeply into her scalp; fatigue settled on her shoulders like a blanket of lead.

For the umpteenth time since the _Atropos_ made harbor, the eldest queen wished fervently and with some bitterness that it was the _Indefatigable_ instead, bringing Peter home. Aslan and his mysterious hints were all very well, but it would be so much easier if the Great Lion just sent her brother back to them – alive and in one piece, preferably. But no, that would never do, and deep down, she knew it was for her betterment. She sighed softly.

"My queen," came a quiet voice from her right, and she turned slightly to see Lord Peridan, his face grave, watching her. "Are you well, your majesty?" he asked.

Susan nodded briefly without replying and returned her attention to her brother's flagship towering above them as it slid into place alongside the quay. She could see Edmund, standing poker straight on the poop deck, with the much smaller, slighter figure of Lucy beside him, and there was something in their carriage that made her think they would be leaping over the side if they did not dock within minutes. What news did they bring her? Indeed, their arrival did seem to be interminably slow. She clenched her fists within the shadowed shelter of her skirts and waited.

When the ship finally drew up close enough, the Talking River Rats working there caught the ropes hurled to them, made them fast, and then caught and made secure the sturdy gangplank. Several _Atropos_ sailors disembarked first and gave their hands to Lucy, who bounded onto the quay with her usual alacrity and darted immediately to Susan.

"Oh, Su!" she cried, grabbing her sister's hands and quickly kissing both cheeks in a hasty greeting, "Oh, Su – we've seen Aslan! We've _seen_ him, and he said Peter is _alive_!"

A murmur arose from the courtiers gathered with her, and Susan was very glad that the younger queen held her hands so tightly, for her aching head began to swim as the weight of her worry and grief lessened just the tiniest bit. She inhaled deeply. "Oh, dear heart," she said, feeling tears of relief pricking at the corners of her eyes and threatening to spill. "That is indeed wonderful news."

She reached out for Edmund, who came down just behind Lucy, and his arms went about her. He kissed her cheeks also, his several days' growth of beard prickling her smooth skin, and she rested her forehead for just a moment on his shoulder. "We have work to do, Susan," he said gently, and she lifted her head to meet his dark eyes.

"Yes, Ed," she replied, "I know."

He nodded gravely and stepped away, turning to help the survivors onto the quay. Palomnus returned to land with a glad little bleat and then turned to assist Tristam as the former wavered a bit upon coming to the bottom of the gangplank and the stone surface of the quay. Susan was startled to see the black cloth binding the physician's eyes, but she said nothing as he slowly took Palomnus's arm and they moved forward to the queens, where the faun bowed deeply.

Susan smiled at him, feeling that seeing Peter's valet alive and well was as close as she could come at the moment to seeing her brother himself. "Good Palomnus," she said, placing her hands on his shoulders and kissing his curly head, "Seeing you brings great cheer to my heart."

The faun gave a small smile. "To be welcomed by your royal highness is an honor beyond anything I could desire, my queen," he said, "Your great beauty and gentle heart give me hope."

She inclined her head, graciously accepting the compliment, and looked to Tristam. She did not know him terribly well, as he served primarily Peter and then as the army's chief physician while they were on campaign, but she could see that a deep melancholy lay over him. Considering the depth of his loss, Susan found she could indeed empathize, and she carefully touched his arm.

"Tristam," she said, "It is a right and necessary thing to grieve, but be wary of your sorrow lasting beyond its season."

He lifted his head at her voice, but said nothing, and the queen saw despair written on his face. "Rest now," she said, "And allow time to heal you. Your service to Narnia and the High King will be remembered. We give you our thanks."

Cruel bitterness twisted at the corner of Tristam's mouth for a fleeting instant, but he merely bowed. "Your majesty," he said, and Susan signaled to one of her courtiers, who came forward and ushered them both solicitously back towards the Cair. The three monarchs remained at the quay until all of the survivors had been brought from the _Atropos_, with Susan giving them a brief welcome and directing courtiers to take them to the healers' ward at the castle.

When they were finally finished, Susan sent the remaining courtiers back the Cair, and Edmund rejoined his sisters. "What say you, consorts?" the eldest queen asked, "Since Peter is alive, we must not delay in starting our search. Far too much time has passed already, and I am afraid for him."

Edmund shook his head. "As are we all," he replied, "but do not be troubled, sister. Aslan said that we must move quickly, but he also advised against acting hastily."

"And he said you would have what we need to start looking, Su," Lucy interjected anxiously, "Has he appeared to you?"

Susan nodded, a strange, wondering little smile crossing her lips. "Yes," she said, "but it was very brief and frankly, rather confusing. I was in the war room studying the Great Map, and I saw him – Aslan – there. His face appeared on the map, and he spoke to me."

"Where did he appear?" her brother queried.

The eldest queen looked up pensively at the roiling gray sky and then gestured back towards the castle. "Let us away – I would rather show you," she said, and the three of them left the quay. "As we go, if it pleases you, tell me what happened with the pirate attack. I am most impatient to hear."

It did not take long for Edmund, aided by emphatic bursts from Lucy, to recount for his sister what Captain Vettriano, Palomnus, and Tristam had imparted to them on their voyage home. Susan clenched her jaw at the description of the pirates' cruelty and their wanton disregard for the crown of Narnia. "We must teach them respect," she said darkly, and Edmund chuckled.

"Indeed," he agreed, a wolfish and utterly mirthless smile transforming his face into that of a merciless stranger, "We will utterly destroy them. But later," he added, the ferocity subsiding a bit, "After we've found the High King."

Lucy tucked her arm into the older queen's. "I'm sure Peter would be happy to hear he is at the top of your list," she said, laughing a bit, and Edmund grimaced at her good-naturedly.

The three sovereigns passed through the northern gates of the Cair as the centaur sentries saluted and then blew the royal fanfare to announce their majesties' return to the castle. "Would you rather refresh yourselves and change first?" Susan asked her siblings, knowing what the answer was most likely going to be but feeling as though propriety demanded the question.

Her sister shook her head. "No, thank you just the same," she said, and Edmund also refused. They made their way through the courtyard just as the first raindrops began to fall and headed for the war room, where the Great Map of Narnia occupied one entire wall in a swath of vibrant, myriad color. Once inside, Susan went directly for it and paused momentarily, considering.

Lucy and Edmund joined her. "Come now, tell us what Aslan said, Susan," the youngest queen encouraged, "We need to get moving - who knows what may be happening to that brother of ours – Aslan didn't say he was on holiday, you know, only that he was alive. And with Peter, sometimes that doesn't mean very much."

Susan narrowly avoided shuddering at those words and took up the pointer, a long, thin, polished rod of ash. She touched it gently to the waters above the Seven Islands. "Here," she said, as the sea on the Great Map swirled and shifted among various dark shades of cerulean green with the contact. "Aslan's face appeared here. He said 'You will find Peter on Murano, my daughter. Have faith and do not despair. Fear no nightly noises, but heed their warning', and then he was gone. At the time, I thought he rather inconsiderately failed to mention if Peter was dead or alive on this Murano."

In spite of her words, as she looked up at the eddying colors, she felt once again the thrill of surprise and then the steadfast comfort of looking into the Great Lion's golden eyes, and the brittle weariness stretching her neck and shoulder muscles taut eased somewhat. "Although I should have listened, instead of simply hearing – the truth of the news you brought was there in the message."

The king rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Murano," he repeated, "That name does not sound at all familiar. Does it to either of you?"

The youngest queen shook her head, her lips pursed. "I confess I have not heard the name before. It must be an island, however – don't you agree?"

"Yes, that was my conclusion also," Susan said, narrowing her eyes slightly as Edmund took his pipe from his belt and began to fill it from the little leather pouch fastened over his hip. "I had Marcellus bring me nautical charts – both those made during our reign and the ancient ones. Murano is indeed an island, a bit north of the Seven Islands. I can only surmise that its small size is the reason there are not Eight – it seems rather inconsequential on these charts." She indicated the piles of parchment and vellum spread willy-nilly over the long council table with a slender hand, and Lucy moved to inspect them, lifting the older, crackling maps with tender care.

Edmund took a taper, lit it from one of the sconced candles on the table, and then held it to the tobacco artfully packed in the pipe bowl. He drew in deeply, his brow furrowed, and Susan watched him carefully, noticing that though his long, angular face was painted in shadows and the deep brown eyes were hooded, he seemed much more at ease than when he had left edged in darkness. Renewed purpose marked his movements, and the young woman found herself greatly relieved. If, by the grace of Aslan, Edmund had been given the strength to throw off the torment brought on by this series of unfortunate events, then perhaps hope existed for her.

Her brother succeeded in bringing the pungent blend to a glowing cherry red, took another long draft, and then released a spicy cloud of smoke. The queen coughed delicately, just once, and when Edmund flicked his eyes to hers, she could see dry amusement there.

"One more thing," he said, drawing and exhaling once more – in her direction, too, Susan thought testily. "What did he mean by 'fear no nightly noises, but heed their warning'?"

Susan hesitated and fought her natural instinct to look away, instead meeting Edmund's gaze squarely and abruptly decided against mentioning her recurrent nightmares for the time being. There was no cause to worry either of them with what was sure to end up as so much nonsense, although Aslan's words echoed in her heart. "I did not understand his meaning clearly," she said evasively, and she saw suspicion blossom by the delicate and barely perceptible lifting of an eyebrow. Lucy, too, was looking at her closely, and Susan cleared her throat.

"Let us make ready to sail," she said briskly, hanging the pointer on its hook and turning for the door in a swirl of skirts. "For we have no time to lose, and I can only pray we will not be too late."


	17. Care for the Dying

**XIV**. _Care for the Dying_

"Is he dead?"

A frantic whisper penetrated the aching fog of Peter's dreams, and he half-opened his eyes, recoiling at the piercingly bright light. A hand tentatively touched his shoulder, and he grunted, trying to claw through the clinging remnants of sleep to a temporary semblance of consciousness.

"Gway, Paomus," he mumbled into his bed, waving his hand feebly – or at least trying to lift it to wave feebly. Oh, Lion's mane, how he hurt. Everywhere, completely, each muscle throbbed dully between the more intense spikes of pain scattered in various places all over his arms, legs, back, and chest. His head still pounded, but it had taken a definite second to this new supreme misery.

Thoroughly disoriented, the High King wondered blearily how he had come to be so badly off. Usually the only times he felt this rotten outside of severe injury were either when he failed to prepare physically for battle, had a terrible case of influenza, or, he hated to admit, was defeated by Edmund in a duel of staves. He felt fairly certain he had not been sparring with his brother, so at least he wouldn't have to endure any gloating.

"Oh, praise be, he's alive!" Another someone spoke, relieved and happy, and a soft mutter of voices came from all around. There came the touch of another hand – or the same one as before, Peter couldn't tell – a bit firmer this time, and he couldn't help gasping as it closed over one of the fiery spots on his shoulder. He bit down on a mouthful of gritty moss, and with that, everything came rushing back. The village, being cast out into the night, the mysterious beasts attacking, finding the sword and winning the fight, hearing that beautiful voice, singing… Bidding him come… He felt himself begin to drift again with the memory and fought against it.

"Sir Peter?" a woman asked, and in another stroke of clarity, the young man recognized Carvaca. He hardened his will and pushed at the ground, groaning a bit as his stiff, bruised, and lacerated body protested in no uncertain terms at being moved. The hands helped him to sit and steadied him as he swayed, and when he was able to bear opening his eyes, he found himself looking into the pinched features of the old woman, Riena instead.

The High King blinked several times and then licked his lips. "Madam," he said, his voice grating harshly against his sore throat, "I confess I feel no little surprise at seeing you."

Riena smiled, slightly sardonically, and held up a dipper. "No more than mine at being here," she replied, and he took her offering, gulping down the lukewarm and faintly woody well-water with relish. She refilled it from the bucket at her side, and he drank again, the horrid, cottony taste in his mouth washing away.

When he was finished, Peter looked about to see what appeared to be nearly the entire village gathered around him there at the edge of the river. The beasts' corpses had been removed from beneath the willow, but the splotches of black blood and other fluids still stained the moss. Carvaca and Muriel knelt next to Riena, both mother and daughter wearing identical expressions of concern, and Devon stood beneath the willow branches, holding back the trailing fronds to allow Robin and the others a good view into the sheltered space.

Peter felt a bemused smile tug at his lips as he was inspected curiously from head to toe. How often did his Narnian subjects see their High King looking and no doubt smelling as though he had spent time overlong in a Calormene garbage heap? In truth, he thought abruptly, it happened far less frequently than Susan would have him believe. The smile widened. "Thank you, madam," he said to Riena and then managed to stand without any displays of discomfort, something he considered quite a feat at that point.

As he straightened painfully to his full height, the crowd drew back slightly, and startled gasps and loud murmurs of astonishment arose from everyone present. The young man almost wrinkled his nose in consternation. He didn't look quite that bad, did he? Eyes round with astonishment regarded him with something akin to awe, and a few people even pointed, whispering to one another openly in amazement.

Following the direction of their gazes, Peter suddenly understood. The sword. He wrapped his hand around the grip, and the villagers drew back even further, including Carvaca, Muriel, and Riena, who was looking openly suspicious once more. Only Devon seemed unmoved, his black eyes glittering with satisfaction.

Carvaca stared at the sword incredulously and then raised her eyes to his face. "How?" she whispered, and the others leaned forward in anticipation, each one waiting to hear his answer.

The High King took a deep breath. "Good people," he said, "The tale is a simple one, and if I tell it to you, I ask only that you tell me yours in return. Just as I see from your faces that this sword means something to you, and the fact that I wear it on my person means something more, I can also see that some great evil has befallen you and your Lady, whoever she may be."

He spread his hands open wide in a gesture he had seen Edmund perfect and uttered the words the diplomat-king had used to open negotiations for years. "Will you treat with me?"

Silence fell for a moment, and then Devon nodded. "We will," he said, "Stand back you lot; give th' knight room."

The villagers obediently opened a path out into the sunshine, and Peter took several tentative steps forward, finding he could walk, although only slowly and awkwardly at first. "Sweet Lion," he whispered, "I _must_ have been poisoned. I'm as weak as a newborn babe."

As he came into the open air, the stench of the beasts' bloated corpses hit the young man full in the face, and he briefly pursed his lips. Though it was hardly equal to the smells of a full-scale battlefield, Peter was certain he would never become entirely comfortable with the smell of death. The bodies would have to be disposed of, certainly, before too much more time passed, or they would become host to disease. He made his way as far from them as could be managed and turned to face the people, who had pressed behind and now gathered round, those in the front sitting to let the back rows see.

Peter kept his stance relaxed and open as he faced them and said nothing for a moment, composing his thoughts with one hand still gripping the sword. "My friends," he began, "last night as I prepared to sleep, I was attacked by the beasts you see now piled in stinking heaps behind us. I would most likely have ended as a meal for the creatures, but by the grace of Aslan, I discovered something hanging in the willow tree above me – this sword. Since I had taken refuge there in the tree, I was able to release the sword and use it to defend my person, thankfully quite successfully. It is a fine blade, and I am most curious as to why it was placed there."

The faces ranged from stunned to outright disbelief as the villagers seemingly tried their best to digest his story. "That all?" a burley man near the back called out, doubt heavy in his tone. "You wen'tn' took it, without'ny trouble?"

"Yes," the High King responded, "I did not find it difficult."

More whispers and murmurs came from the people, and Robin was staring at him with his mouth wide open. "I take it recovering the sword was supposed to be impossible?" the young man prompted, wondering when he would actually receive any answers.

"'Tis truth," Devon finally said, ""Yes, 'twas supposed to be impossible."

Now it was Peter's turn to arch an eyebrow, feeling as though he were, to usurp one of Lucy's odd phrases, 'pulling teeth'. "What do you mean?" he asked patiently.

"It means," said Robin, annoyed, "that I've climbed that tree millions of times and haven't even _gotten_ to the sword branch. No matter how high I climb, I never even get close. It always stays the same distance away. How'd you _do_ that?"

The young man was in the middle of opening his mouth to respond when Riena plunked down her bucket and came towards him with an unreadable expression on her face. Without a word, she stepped to his left side and unceremoniously shoved up the ragged strips of bandaging he had wound about his upper arm. He was about to demand that she unhand his personage at once, when she released him after scrutinizing his entire arm from his shoulder down to his hand. "Madam…" he began as she then moved to his back and did the same.

"Hush," she said brusquely, her short, stubby fingers pulling back the bandaging to poke at his skin, causing him to wince and bite his tongue to keep from saying something improper. The people watched with great interest as the old woman snorted and, apparently not finding what she sought, went to Peter's right side and prodded along that arm, pushing aside the dirty cloth. Suddenly he stiffened with shock, arching his back slightly, as cold agony burst from a spot she had touched, and a muffled cry broke from his lips.

Riena tore away the bandaging with a sharp tug and jerked him around so that his now bare arm was visible to the crowd. "This is how he did it," she said breathlessly, triumph in her voice. "Did I not say he smelled of enchantments? Look you lot, he bears the Lady's mark!"

Peter, who was starting to feel as though he were a young boy again with all the pushing and shoving, twisted his head to see what had the old woman so upset. Just above a set of scabbed-over slashes there on his upper bicep was a mark he had never seen before, and when he was finally able to make out its shape, a knot of ice formed in his stomach. It was a small, black tattoo in the form of a flying bird, and he knew what species it represented immediately. A black-winged crow.


	18. A Pathway Set in Stone

**AN:** Finally, Peter gets some answers! Thank you all **so much** for reading and reviewing – it inspires me and keeps me going!

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_By the margin, willow-veil'd  
Slide the heavy barges trail'd  
By slow horses; and unhail'd  
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd  
Skimming down to Camelot:  
But who hath seen her wave her hand?  
Or at the casement seen her stand?  
Or is she known in all the land,  
The Lady of Shalott?  
The Lady of Shalott_ by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, lines 19-26

**XV**. _A Pathway Set in Stone_

The crowd of villagers stirred with this damning pronouncement and the subsequent proof, murmuring amongst themselves in darkening tones. Riena released the knight's arm, but he remained for a few heartbeats staring down at the sharply defined tattoo on his muscular arm as though he had sprouted something poisonous and foul. Then he looked up, and though his face had returned to its carefully neutral expression, Devon saw his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. Oh, he was disturbed, and rightly so.

It was Carvaca, rather predictably enough, who opened the argument. "This is ridiculous!" she said loudly, stepping forward. "Can you not see with your eyes, old woman? This good knight has done what the rest of us could not! He holds the deliverer's sword in his hands! Do you not know what this means? You, with your years of experience? Your wealth of knowledge?"

Her voice rose with each sentence, and there were some amongst her friends and neighbors who agreed with her. "Aye, 'tis truth!" called Betsie, "He has the sword! Is he not then meant to break the curse?"

Riena stiffened and crossed her arms. "You silly fools," she replied equally vehemently, "You fall for sweet words and a fair face!" Devon, who was watching the knight out of the corner of his eye, saw the man's lips twitch towards a smile at that remark. "The sword matters not! The Lady has marked him; he is in her service! Certainly then, he would be able to take the sword!"

"What of the fair promises _you_ gave us, Riena?" Carvaca asked shrilly, "When the sword appeared in the tree those many years ago, you said one would come who would be able to take it down. That person, you said, would then be able to lift the doom weighing on us."

"Aye," said Beorn, Betsie's husband. "Yeh did say those things. And I see plain the knight has the sword."

"But I see plain the mark on 'is arm," said another of the villagers, Rayson by name. "And 'ow d'we know 'e's a knight? We only 'ave 'is word, and now we can't trust it."

"No," Riena said, stonily oblivious to Carvaca throwing up her hands in disgust, "We cannot trust it."

"Ye're afraid," broke in the goodwife Harriah. "Just 'cause ye were wrong in judging the Lady. Listen, Riena. Ye mustn't let yer fear blind ye. We didn't blame ye then, and we don't now."

"You are witless, Harriah," the old woman spat in response, "There is no disputing the mark. He is an accomplice of the Lady, come now after these many years to free her, thinking to gain our goodwill first by taking the sword down from the tree!"

More people joined in, shouting to make themselves heard, until the air rang with arguing voices. Even Robin and Muriel and the other children imitated their elders and faced one another on opposite lines, screaming. As the squabble escalated, the blacksmith became slightly concerned that the whole thing was soon going to get out of hand. He hoped the Lady was up there watching, enjoying the chaos she was inflicting on her hapless subjects. She was the type who would.

"_Enough_!" The command cut through the cacophony like a whip, fairly crackling with authority and reinforced by pure steel. Startled, the villagers hesitated, and heads craned to see who had interrupted them. It was the knight, standing with his feet set apart and the sword drawn, his expression stern beyond words. He had not yelled or bellowed to get their attention – he had simply spoken, and Devon found himself mightily impressed. Who would have thought?

Everyone quieted immediately under the severity of that gaze, and more than one burly peasant squirmed and shuffled his feet, feeling suddenly and inexplicably ashamed. The knight took a deep breath and sheathed the sword with a swift, practiced movement. "This strife helps us not," he said quietly. "I am the one bearing this mark, as well as this sword, and I _must _have answers if I am to understand either. You have said you will treat with me, not threaten my life. Which," he added almost casually, an offhand, yet serious warning embedded in his tone, "I am more than capable of defending."

Devon turned slightly to look back at the bloating, stinking corpses heaped at the river's edge, and by the awkward tension that entered the silence, it appeared others had gotten the message also. Someone coughed.

The knight relaxed a bit and then looked at the blacksmith. "You are the only person here whose opinion I have not yet heard. And as I believe I have you to thank for pointing me in this direction," one long forefinger tapped the sword hilt, "I would like you to enlighten me."

Eyes as blue as the cold, northern sea met his. "What is your story?" the knight asked softly, almost contemplatively, and Devon frowned. Well, he'd done it, sure enough, and now he had to speak. He knew he would not dare challenge this man again, despite their rather marked difference in size. He had a feeling the knight had come to the edge of his patience and that pushing him any further would not be a very wise idea.

"It happened years ago," the smith began, folding his arms and trying to ignore his neighbors. He wasn't much of an orator, but the knight didn't seem to care. "I was near fifteen summers. My folks come here, like most of ours, from th' Seven Islands, t' see what was here and t' make such living as they could. This tower," he waved a large hand towards the grey castle rising above them across the river, "was here, but tumble down – ruins. I did a bit of exploring in there as a lad. Not much t' see."

Devon paused, while the villagers began to take seats on the grass. Carvaca sat and pulled Muriel onto her lap, and the little girl cuddled into her mother's arms, her hazel eyes never leaving the knight. Soon only he and the blacksmith remained standing, and the tall young man, his arms crossed also, gave an encouraging nod for the blacksmith to continue.

The older man cleared his throat and stroked his thick, black mustache as he thought back. "One day, I was in th' smithy with my pa, helpin' him with his work, and we heard a terrible loud noise as came from th' tower, we thought. We rushed out, with all th' others, t' find out what'd happened. And there she was."

He hesitated, seeing again in his mind's eye the bright sunlight, the dust, the figure of a woman coming to meet them. "She was dressed odd – in some kind of cloak 'twas covered in feathers. Comin' out of th' ruins, carryin' th' broken bits of a mighty spear – one half in each hand. Long, wild, red hair – gleamed in th' sun, I remember that certain. Fair as a summer's day, but scary as hell."

"Something was wrong with her," Harriah put in, pushing a stray wisp of her feathery white hair back behind her ears, "She seemed sick. Or badly wounded, mebbe inside – she weren't marked. Stumbled, fell, crawled. We was afraid; we wanted to leave her be, let her die. But my good friend Riena told us all we should help her. That she couldn't harm no one in her condition."

"And 'twas true," Devon continued, "She didn't know herself and didn't know us. We took her t' Cardah, th' healer-woman, and figured if she lived, we'd see what'd happen."

The group of villagers was so intent on the story that the only sound was the quiet hiss of the wind in the willows and the gurgle of the river. The knight, eyes narrowed, was slowly stroking his unshaven chin as he listened. The blacksmith went on. "She lived, clear enough. Healed quick, but then, she was healthy – strong. Never seen a woman so strong."

"We offered her shelter," Riena interjected, but she was no longer belligerent. Instead, her face was sad, and her voice was quiet. "She laughed at us. She said she already had servants – that she had at least been allowed servants, and that they would take care of her. And then the crows came."

"I was very young," Carvaca said, "but I do remember that. Hordes of them, coming from nowhere and everywhere. They nearly made the sky black. They scared me. I still have bad dreams from time to time."

The stranger stirred. "Crows," he repeated, "They do her bidding?"

"Aye, Sir Peter," Carvaca said, "Even now we see them; they're always about. No doubt you've noticed."

A wry smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "Yes, I've noticed."

"She didn't give her name, and we was too scared of her t' ask," Devon continued, "After she looked us over, she smiled, and said somethin' like 'He cannot hold me long,' and went back t' th' ruins. Th' next morning, we woke – those of us who slept – t' this." He indicated the castle again. "Things went back t' normal for awhile, and then came th' Change."

The young man's brow furrowed. "The Change?" he asked, "Was that when you discovered you could no longer leave the island?"

Carvaca nodded. "In a way," she said, looking back up at her husband.

"Not long after she came, there 'twas another huge noise – though this one 'twas more like an explosion," the blacksmith explained.

"The earth shook," Riena added, "And winds came – cold, cold winds – sweeping away branches and leaves and anything that wasn't tied down. And in the storm, we could hear her screaming – horrible, tormented. We were all sick - dazed - for some time after that – couldn't hardly move."

"When th' next trader's boat didn't come from th' Seven Islands, we knew somethin' was wrong," Devon continued, "We tried t' go there ourselves with what we had, but no matter where we set out from, our boats always capsized at a certain point. 'Twas like an invisible fence 'round the island. 'Ventually, we just gave up. Figgered the whole island must've disappeared from sight – no one ever come."

"'Tis been the same nigh unto now," Harriah said, "We haven't neverseen the Lady since the Change. Sometimes hear her singing. She's not friendly to us, for all that we saved her. Crops haven't never been good. Game extra skittish – hard to take. Sickness often. The like." She shrugged and waved a wrinkled hand. "In the main, 'tis best to avoid meddling in the affairs of fairies."

The knight gave a short, hoarse laugh. "You speak truly, good woman," he said, "Although it appears this fairy Lady has chosen to meddle in mine." He stopped, and an odd look came over his face. "There weren't by chance any…prophecies made about this sword and your deliverer, were there?"

Heads swiveled towards Riena, who cleared her throat a little sheepishly. "Not as such," she said, "I dream sometimes and can do small spells. Enough to tell someone would be coming someday. I know enough to see you have some enchantment hanging over you, and you _have_ been marked. I am still uneasy in my mind about you – I would rather not be wrong again."

The tall young man smiled, although it was taut – strained. "I can assure you, you are not wrong, madam," he said. "I am not in league with this Lady of yours; however, it does seem as though I am being nudged in her direction."

"Whaddawe do now?" asked Rayson, after a short pause. "If ye're in truth not lyin'."

Devon shrugged. "'Tis a fair bet th' Lady knows ye're here. I don't see sense in skulkin'."

Carvaca stared up at him and then squinted slightly, and the blacksmith knew his wife was angry. Well, 'twas nothing he could do about it. If the stranger was meant to face the Lady, then he should be encouraged on his way. The sooner he left, the sooner they all might be released from their nearly lifelong imprisonment. He glanced back at the knight, who was swaying slightly on his feet. Oh, aye, the man was exhausted and hurting – and here Devon was suggesting that he be off immediately. Not the way to win his friendship, but then, the smith reflected, he wasn't exactly interested in making a boon companion. He 'hmphed' and considered the best way to drop the hint, but the knight beat him to it.

"You speak truly," he said, with an almost derisive arch to his eyebrow, and Devon realized he must have been wearing his thoughts on his sleeve. "It appears the most expedient course of action would be to seek this Lady and confront her. And I find it very likely that she has known of my presence ever since I set foot on this island."

The villagers stirred, and whispers broke out once more among them. Carvaca stood and gently set Muriel on her feet. "Won't you rest and eat first, Sir Peter?" she asked, worrying, "You cannot go as you are!"

"Madam," he replied, "You are very kind. I believe, however, that I must see this through to whatever end lies in store for us all." She made a choked noise of disbelief, and he smiled again, genuinely this time, through the grime and bruises on his face. "In truth," he continued, leaning forward conspiratorially and lowering his voice to a stage whisper, "If I stop moving, madam, I won't start again. Sitting down means I won't be getting up – at least not for a very long time."

There were some nervous chuckles at that, and then the knight straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, looking up across the river to the castle of gray stone. "How does one cross the river?" he asked.

"A footbridge, just past the willows," said Harriah, sympathetically. "May fortune smile on ye and bless ye, my son."

He nodded his thanks to her and was just about to step forward, when Muriel suddenly broke from her mother and ran to him. She dropped an awkward curtsey and held out the corn husk doll she'd been clutching the entire time. "Take this token," she said, her childish voice clear and her words meticulously pronounced, as though she had spent time carefully memorizing them, "In…mem-or-eeyam of your lady, who will be…pray-praying for your … safe return."

Devon frowned. So that's what she and Carvaca had been up half the night whispering about. Trust his wife to let her foolish romantic notions carry her away. She and his mother did nothing but fill Muriel's head with nonsense.

The knight paused. The people pushed at one another to see and cast skeptical glances towards their neighbors. Surely he wouldn't take it? What on earth would he do with a crackling, scratchy, twisted piece of cornhusk? But the blacksmith, having seen the way the young man had bid his daughter farewell the evening before, was not at all surprised when he reached out and took the doll from Muriel.

"Thank you, mi'lady," he said, tucking it into the sword belt and gently placing a callused hand on her head. "I accept this token of your esteem and promise to carry it faithfully." And with that, without a glance backwards, he strode away from the little crowd there near the village, not letting his slight limp slow him down in the least.

They watched, silent, enraptured, as he moved past the corpses, past the willows, disappearing beneath their feathery branches for several heartbeats, and then reappearing as a much smaller figure on the other side of the river. They continued watching, tense, fearful, as he climbed the white stone pathway and wound his way up towards the castle. And as he stopped beneath the shadow of the portcullis, they stood as if turned to statues, waiting, worrying, hoping. An echoing, booming rattle reached them as the great gate slowly opened, and they held their collective breath as the knight stepped inside and was finally lost to view.


	19. Interlude Anxius

**AN:** I know, it's not much. But it's something… (slow, evil grin)

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_Interlude – Anxius_

"I _saw_ him. He was kneeling, kissing the hem of a woman's kirtle. I couldn't see her face, but he…" whispers, halted, a deep breath. Quavering candlelight cast weird, flickering shadows. A long-fingered hand held an equally slender one comfortingly. "He swore an oath to her. He _became_ hers." A low exclamation. "Are you sure?" Dark sapphire eyes glared from beneath long black lashes. "Don't be an idiot, Ed. I know what I dreamt." Murmurs of assurance. The creaking of ships' timbers, swaying, up and down, forcing balance. Another breath. "And then he returned to Narnia. With her. He laid it to waste, in _her_ name." Absolute silence. "And you keep dreaming this?" A heartbeat. The slightly smaller fingers curled around the other hand. "Worse. _The_ worst." Again a pause. "Go on." A sister's encouragement. White teeth worry a full lower lip.  
"In the other rendering, far more often," Susan finally says, hushed, haunted. "He has defied her. And I see him tied to a rock with his own entrails, upright to the last. There is a crow on his shoulder, weeping. For him."  
After this last horror, nothing more is said. Sleep is slow in coming.


	20. In the Garden

_A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,  
He rode between the barley-sheaves,  
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,  
And flamed upon the brazen greaves  
Of bold Sir Lancelot. …  
From the bank and from the river  
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,_  
'_Tirra lirra,' by the river  
Sang Sir Lancelot.  
+ The Lady of Shalott_, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, lines 73-7, 105-8

**XVI. In the Garden **

When the gate closed behind him with a shattering 'boom,' the High King found himself standing in a silence so complete, it made his skin crawl. No sound came to his ears, neither the singing of birds, nor the chirping of insects, nor the wind in the grass – he could hear absolutely nothing. The cold spot marking the tattoo throbbed, and he could almost swear a chill was flowing into his blood, leeching the heat from the rest of his body. He left his arms hanging loose and relaxed as much as possible, keeping his right hand free and open, ready to take hold of the sword if necessary.

Slowly, cautiously, he moved forward, out of the gatehouse and into the courtyard, a wide-open space filled almost wall-to-wall with flowers. The air was heavier here, full of sweet, heady perfume, and the hundreds of varieties – reds, blues, violets, yellows, oranges, pinks, purples – all blended together in an absolute riot of color and mixed with the verdant green of their leaves and stems. Peter breathed in the delightful aroma, closing his eyes for a moment. He certainly had not expected to find beauty here. The villagers had painted such a sinister picture of the Lady, he had thought to encounter dank, dripping walls, slimy, stagnant pools of water, and an overwhelming sense of evil, not a garden run amok. And yet, there was something he could not quite put a finger on – a hint, a flavor, an undercurrent to the air.

A rustling, flapping noise caught his attention, and the young man opened his eyes to see his old friends, the crows, circling above him and coming to rest in the ornamental trees planted alongside the walls on either side, some landing around him, all watching him carefully with their beady, shiny black eyes. He could _feel_ something stirring now; heralded by the birds, or perhaps more likely, informed by them. The High King looked up towards the opposite end of the courtyard, to one of the towers, and there he saw a heavy wooden door slowly scraping open.

"_Enter, my champion_," came the voice, simultaneously as wonderful and eerie as it had been the previous night, emanating from the very air around him. "_You are weary and in need of refreshment_."

"…and a good bath," Peter thought to himself, not moving just yet, waiting.

"_Why do you hesitate_?" the voice asked, sounding faintly amused. "_You need not fear what I offer you_."

"…yet," the High King added, and then, shaking himself slightly, he started forward, heedless of the crows blocking the path. They 'cawed' obstreperously, but fluttered out of his way, as he showed no signs of slowing or caring if he trod on them. He came to the door and stepped into the tower, the musty smell of slightly damp stone a welcome change from the pungency of the flowers' incense. A curved staircase wound about the outer wall of the tower, leading up and out of sight. Torches burned in oddly twisted black iron brackets, their faint, uncertain light wavering through the misty gloom.

Peter cautiously climbed the stairs, wondering if he would finally come face to face with the Lady here, the curious anticipation of such a moment twisting his stomach. After a minute or so of tedious plodding, he reached a landing, where a tall door stood invitingly ajar. Carefully, he put a hand to the wood and pushed it just a little further, giving him a clear view of a finely appointed chamber, which was – a jolt of something surprisingly akin to disappointment going through him – quite empty.

He entered the room, his senses still on alert. The décor was rich in quality, simple in taste, bold in coloring – a high, four-post bed occupied the wall just to the right, its blood-red curtains tied back. A dark wooden armoire sat opposite the bed, one carved door flung wide, giving a glimpse of clothing within. A thick woven rug, also a deep crimson, covered the floor, and Peter couldn't help but sigh, just a little, as his bruised, bare feet sank into the cushioning pile. While not quite as luxurious as the carpets in Cair Paravel, right now, they felt as soft as anything he'd felt in a very long time.

"_Very good, Sir Peter_," the voice purred into his ear, making him jump, "_Please, make yourself comfortable. Wash, rest, robe – and then we will talk, you and I._"

The High King found himself mightily tempted to obey the order – a gleaming pitcher and basin rested primly on a side table, a pristine white towel their companion, and he could swear honest-to-goodness steam was curling up from the pitcher mouth. A fresh tunic of deep blue lay out on the bed, along with a pair of clean hose and a belt. He ran a finger gently over the soft fabric. The embroidery on the tunic was nearly as fine as Susan's work, although it lacked her graceful touch. Boots that looked very much as though they would fit him sat on the rug beside the bed, the soft leather tops folding over onto themselves. Peter eyed them wistfully.

"Madam," he said to the thin air, feeling slightly foolish, but knowing he was heard. He wanted to nip capitulation in the bud, for who knew where that could lead? Edmund was not the only one who oft remembered the lesson of Turkish Delight. "Your gifts are most generous and gracious, and I thank you. However, if it pleases you, I would very much like to speak with you before I take advantage of your courtesy. We have much to discuss, and it does not profit us to wait."

Silence. Peter compressed his lips into a narrow line. "Forgive me, I know I am not at my best," he continued, "I do not intend disrespect for your person. I simply feel it behooves us to proceed. I am not patient, and I am loath to play the dilettante."

"_Mmmmmmm, a bold diplomat as well as a mighty warrior. I _**_am_**_ impressed_." There was a new note to the voice now, a shade of greed. "_Very well. Come to my chambers. You know the way_."

And Peter realized, with some shock, that he did. Down-stairs, through the gloriously vibrant and aromatic courtyard, into the nearest tower – another door grinding open – up-stairs, around, around, and around, and then there he was, standing before another intricately carved door.

"_Come in_," the voice invited, and just as he reached out to put a hand to the golden latch, he hesitated, taking a deep breath and trying to slow his wildly beating heart. He knew well that this venture was supremely risky and bordering on foolish, but every circumstance seemed to be pointing him here. What else was he to do? Besides, there was just the tiniest corner of his heart, one he tried to pretend didn't exist, that very much wanted to meet the owner of that deliciously unsettling voice. Peter roughly pushed away his misgivings and lifted the latch. He knew what he was about.

Unthinkably, this room was bare, lacking any extraneous furniture or comfort, barren when compared to the chamber meant for him. A huge floor to ceiling mirror occupied the opposite wall next to the narrow window, but his attention was captured elsewhere. Rising from her bench at the loom placed before the mirror, the Lady came forward to greet him with a knowing smile.

"Greetings, Sir Peter," she said, holding out her hand. "You are most welcome."

Peter felt his face flushing uncomfortably as he took her fingers in his own and pressed a perfectly polite kiss to the back of her hand. He had seen what passed for loveliness among the Calormens, Archenlanders, and the Narnian islands, and while they had indeed been very beautiful, not one lady had caught his attention. Overall, he was quite content with his lot and uninterested in looking, and he usually laughingly dismissed any delicate hint that he should pay more attention to such things.

But as the High King straightened and met her moss-colored eyes, he knew that this Lady was another matter entirely. She was tall – almost as tall as he was – and statuesque, straight-backed and long-limbed. A braid of dark red hair as broad as his wrist fell nearly to the back of her knees. Her features were a trifle strong: a long, narrow nose, full lips, and rather startling, thick, red eyebrows, but she was extremely striking nonetheless. Peter fought the urge to squirm. The room was becoming rather too warm for his taste.

They stood for several long moments, considering one another, and then the Lady closed her eyes and inhaled, nostrils flaring delicately, a languorous smile crossing her face, an ecstasy bordering on madness shadowing the curve of her lips. "Quite delicious," she said finally, half to herself, "A superb bouquet…"

Peter was not entirely sure what to make of this, although he was quite conscious of the by-now familiar shiver threading its way down his spine. He _mustn't_ let himself be carried away – he was playing with fire here, and it was becoming more obvious by the second. "I'm afraid you have the advantage of me," he said, "May I ask milady's name?"

She reopened her eyes and regarded him with some amusement, which made him frown. He disliked it when others held secret knowledge over his head, as it seemed she was doing now. "Can you not guess, my champion?" she asked, turning both hands palm up. Large, well-formed hands, he saw, with strong, shapely fingers. Hands which looked more than capable of wielding a sword – a bow – a spear. He wondered – would they be calloused from long hours of practice, or would their touch be as smooth and cool as silk…

With some effort, Peter wrenched his thoughts away from that disastrous path, coloring more deeply as he realized where he was heading. "No, madam, I cannot guess," he said rather stiffly, meeting her gaze levelly in spite of his embarrassment.

The Lady smiled again, showing white teeth this time. "I have been known by many names, Sir Peter," she said, "and will be again. But for now, you may call me Rua."

He gave a short bow, regal and formal. "It is my honor."

"Indeed," she replied, "Come, let us walk together in the gardens and talk. This chamber is no fit place for such things."

And the High King offered her his arm, which she took, wrapping her fingers tenderly around the bandaging and stepping in close to his side. She sighed, just barely audible. He felt her hip brush against the sword belted to his waist, and the small movement sent tiny shockwaves rippling through him. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward and left the room, navigating the narrow steps with care and once again entering the courtyard. With gentle pressure, she directed him straight ahead, and they began to walk slowly along the great grey wall, beneath the shade of the flowering, ornamental trees. The crows settled above and about them, silent and watchful.

After a few moments, the Lady made a soft noise, clearing her throat as a prelude to speech. "Why did you come here?" she asked, as one who already knew the answer.

Peter blinked. _To free the villagers, to break the curse, to lift the doom, of course, certainly_ – all these ran through his mind in an instant, firm with conviction, and so he replied.

"To see you."

Sweet Lion. Where had _that_ come from? Through his mortification with himself and his unbelief at the words hanging like fire in the air between them, Peter sensed rather than saw the corners of Lady Rua's mouth curling up. "Exactly," she said, her satisfaction evident. She stopped beneath an especially gnarled tree and faced him, her hand still tucked beneath his arm. Her moss-colored eyes gleamed, and the young man was reminded of a great cat with its blood up, wild and dangerous.

"The foolish little people below are not the only ones suffering," she continued, "No, their complaint is nothing." She made a dismissive gesture with her free hand. "I have been waiting for you, as well, you see. Waiting for a very long time. Oh, such a _very_ long time." A breath. She swayed just the tiniest bit.

"I made what preparations as I could, in the hopes that my efforts would divine the right warrior at the proper time. And they did." Her voice tightened with a ravenous hunger. "The greatest warrior this world knows – perhaps has ever known. I was content. I had found my champion."

"Did you bring me here, to this place?"

"I have some experience with war. A little skill." A small, almost cruel smile. "Enough to prepare your way. To convey you to me."

Peter took a long, long moment to digest this information. "I presume you knew I was grievously wounded, then, Lady," he said, "Were you the one who healed me?"

The Lady leaned forward. "No. Why should I have done?" She raised an eyebrow, and he raised his in return, causing her to laugh a bit. "You must know? Ah. Beware, my champion, curiosity will be your undoing." She laughed again, low. "Beneath this," she placed her hand flat on his chest, "there is desolation and agony. But my spells are woven about you, protecting you, keeping you from feeling the ruin of your physical body. There is nothing to fear, as long as I am with you."

There was complete silence. A cold knot of horror solidified in his stomach. "Oh, Aslan," Peter thought, "Oh, Great Lion, I am in desperate need of your aid!" And then he felt her touch on his arm, inhaled the rich fragrance of her hair, and all he could say, hoarsely at first and then clearly, after trying again, was, "You sent the beasts to me last night." It was not a question now, merely a statement of fact.

"Yes. I had to see for myself that you were truly worthy. To ensure your legend bespoke truth, rather than lies. I had to know."

"This is your sword." He wrapped his hand around the grip and squeezed so tightly it hurt, welcoming the pain to keep him focused – sane.

"Again, yes. Placed in the tree for he who was able." Another smile, showing teeth again, and there was no mistaking the unbalanced, untamable, unquenchable joy shining from her face. "And you were able, Sir Peter. Such _magnificence_. We fought them together, you and I. What exquisite perfection you are in battle. Did you know?"

The High King swallowed. Hard. "I do not enjoy it."

Lady Rua moved closer still, slowly running both hands up his arms, her palms hovering, not quite touching him. He trembled and closed his eyes, feeling her bend her head next to his ear, her breath warm and her lips inches from his skin. "Yes, you do," she whispered. "This is why you were chosen, why you are here. And I will teach you to _revel_ in your glory – to delight in the beauty of red blood spilt. And you will, my champion, my knight, my _savior_. You _will_."


	21. The Hour Draws Nigh

**AN:** The name of Edmund's sword and the mention of his exploits with the dwarves of Blue River featured herein do not belong to me! They are used with the very, very kind and gracious permission of elecktrum. (Go read _Into The West _after this. You'll be glad you did).

* * *

**XVII. The Hour Draws Nigh…**

"Edmund!" A hoarse whisper roused the young king out of a troubled sleep, and hands shook his shoulders roughly, causing him to growl fiercely as he came to himself. Squinting frowsily, he gradually recognized the hunched shape looming over him as Lucy, who was wrapped in a long robe and holding a lantern. The flickering candlelight cast weird shadows over her fatigued expression. Edmund sat up in his berth, tangled in blankets but instantly wide awake.

"Lu?" he inquired sharply, "What's wrong? Has Susan had another nightmare?"

His sister shook her head. "No. She's sleeping peacefully for now."

Edmund frowned, annoyed. "Then why in Aslan's name did you see fit to drag me out of my own slumber, such as it was?" he asked, his adrenaline rush subsiding into snappishness.

The youngest queen bit her lip. "I'm sorry, Ed," she answered miserably, "_I_ couldn't sleep anymore."

"I fail to see how waking _me_ solves _your_ problem," he said, irritated, and then rudely slid back down beneath the covers and pulled them over his head. Minutes ticked past. The _Atropos_ creaked and sang, pitching gently as she drove through the waves, the occasional call of a sailor punctuating the graying darkness. Finally Edmund could take it no longer. Tossing back the blankets with a heavy, resigned sigh, he looked up at Lucy, who still stood beside him, guiltily triumphant.

"Walk with me, please, and keep me company? If you would?" she asked, a small smile crossing her face, and the young man had no choice but to capitulate. Peter wasn't the only being in Narnia – or Archenland, for that matter – wound around Lucy's slender finger. And as he could see the faint flush of dawn coloring the air and smell the crisp freshness of a very early morning at sea, he figured the night was pretty much over anyway.

Muttering a bit under his breath at the injustice of it all, he jammed his feet into his boots and grabbed his dressing gown off its hook, running his fingers through his thick, unruly hair in a mostly futile attempt to restore some order. He rummaged around in the locker beneath the berth, fishing his tobacco pouch and pipe out of the rat's nest of his belongings, and then turned to Lucy and gestured to the cabin door. "Lead the way, O delight of my eyes," he said.

She stuck her tongue out at him, but preceded him out onto the deck, where a stiff breeze teased wisps of her light brown hair out of her bedtime braid and whipped them around her face. "Chilly this morning, don't you think?" she asked brightly, shielding the lantern with her hand while Edmund packed his pipe bowl.

He glared just a bit as he lit the tobacco from the candle, then clamped the bit between his teeth and took an experimental draw. "It's much warmer now," he said with great satisfaction, exhaling, and Lucy blew out the guttering flame.

Together they went to the rail and stood, watching the slipstream of water rushing away from the _Atropos's_ sides turn from a dark gray to a bloody red to a frothy pink to a clear green as the sun broke the horizon line and painted the world in marvelous colors. Each was conscious of and comforted by the other, but conversation seemed unnecessary and even undesirable. Edmund smoked in silence, inhaling and then puffing smoke into the wind, and Lucy stared out over the sea, hugging the cold and darkened lantern to her chest.

"Today's the day we might find Peter," she said at last, but her brother did not respond. His dark eyes contained a far away expression as he pursed his lips and blew several smoke rings.

Lucy blinked back a sudden rush of emotion. "It seems the closer we come, the worse I feel," she said, "I'm one trembly bundle of nerves, and it doesn't ever seem to get any better. And there's nothing to say, for everything has been said, but…" She looked at him and licked her dry lips tentatively. "I'm afraid, Ed," she said softly.

The young king nodded. "I know," he replied then, somberly. "I am, too."

Behind them, the ship's bell rang out the hour, sounding four strokes clear and loud, marking the halfway point in the morning watch. The two sovereigns remained standing side by side, sharing and shouldering between them a quiet, humming tension as the sun rose higher and higher, its light a brilliant, translucent gold, the sky a clear blue and white, with pink and purple tones touching the undersides of lacy clouds.

"I think I'm going to kill him for this," Edmund said calmly, without preamble, and Lucy found herself smiling through a film of tears.

"He said the same about you, once," she said, glancing over at the younger king.

Edmund grunted, low in his chest, but he appeared faintly amused. "And I'm sure he was every bit as serious then as I am now," he returned, looking down at her fondly. "Come on, goose, let's see if Rasselus has anything ready to eat. We might bring a tray in to Susan."

"Or have Susan come to the tray," said their sister's voice from behind them, and they both jumped, for neither had heard her approach. Lucy went hurriedly to the queen's side and slipped an arm around her waist.

"Are you well, Su?" she asked anxiously. "I was hoping you would sleep a little longer. You didn't dream again, did you?"

Susan smiled affectionately, belying the tiredness in her face and the smudges beneath her eyes. "No, thank Aslan. I'm just a little weary. Don't fret so, dear heart; I'm not made of china."

Lucy uttered an impatient little 'hmph!' and hugged her sister closer, a gesture Susan returned appreciatively. The eldest queen turned her dark eyes to Edmund, who was watching her steadily, and pulled a face at him. "Smoking already, Ed?" she asked, and the disapproval of both his habit and his careful appraisal was clear in her tone. Though his gaze lost none of its sharpness, a tiny smirk pulled at one side of his mouth as he looked away and made an exaggerated pretense of studying the rigging.

"Now you, two," the younger queen interjected, steering Susan away and heading in the direction of the galley, from whence warm smells of oatmeal and biscuits were beginning to emerge. "Don't start. It's much too early."

000000000000000000000000

After breakfast, the three sovereigns completed their morning toilettes, with Susan and Lucy serving as one another's maids and Edmund making do, though rather poorly, on his own. He cut himself twice shaving, spilled his basin of water, tripped over his boots, and generally worked himself into a thoroughly horrible temper, which ended badly with him kicking his sea-trunk and severely stubbing his toe. The morning wore onward at a perfectly dismal pace.

Yet when the cry of 'land-ho!' finally came from the fighting top, Edmund, now dressed and playing a half-hearted, mostly one-sided game of chess with Susan on the poop deck, looked up to see with some surprise that the sun fast approached its zenith. The _Atropos_ began to hum with activity, and after helping his older sister pack the chess set away, the young king sent aloft his cadre of loyal scouts, the falcons and hawks who had elected to make the sea voyage with him.

Edmund then returned to his cabin, accompanied by Lucy, where he began to ready himself for what lay ahead. He had elected to bring along his beautifully worked light armor, reckoning that a successful extrication of the High King from his current mysterious trouble no doubt would eventually call for a spot of head-bashing and blood-letting, as usual. Even if not, it was always best to be prepared. The youngest queen served silently and ably as his assistant for the buckling and the lacing of all the pieces, having had extensive practice in garbing both her brothers for war, and he was immensely grateful for the steady comfort of her swift, efficient movements and nimble fingers.

For the pit of the young king's stomach already crawled with the jittery, itchy, dizzy, sickening sensation that always plagued him before any sort of planned engagement, and he detested feeling so ill when he needed every ounce of mental and physical agility he possessed. The extra helping of anxious fear he felt now for Peter only added to his burden, and he gritted his teeth against the onslaught, praying they would make it to land before he had to throw up his breakfast. He shouldn't have eaten that last helping of oatmeal.

Lucy straightened her brother's forest green tabard, which was emblazoned in silver with his snarling wolf's head crest, and then presented him with his sword belt. The young man placed it about his waist, buckling and looping the extra leather, glad for its reassuring weight. Over his left hip hung Shafelm, Blade of the Western Wood, alongside a long dagger of Blue River steel, forged and shaped by his own two hands during one of his annual sojourns with the Black Dwarves. He thanked his sister for her help, kissing her on the cheek and eliciting a tremulous smile, and then she disappeared to the cabin she shared with Susan in order to make her own preparations.

Edmund faced himself in the small campaign mirror hanging over his washbasin and settled his silver crown over his dark hair, making sure it was snug and secure. He started critically at his reflection for a moment and then blew out a short breath, drew Shafelm, reversed it, and went down on one knee. "Aslan, Great Lion," he began, "If it pleases you, look with favor on us this day. Grant your servants sharp eyes, clear heads, and steady hands, and give us the strength…" hesitation, a hitch, "…to do – and endure – what we must. I beseech you; keep your High King, your servants, and your kingdom, land, and world ever and forever beneath your mighty paw."

The young king felt silent then and remained so for several long minutes with his forehead resting lightly against Shafelm's cross-guard, his inhalations deep and measured – disciplined and slow. He began to force his sickness behind him, replacing it bit by bit with implacable determination and inexorable will.

"Stand fast, my brother, Peter High King," he whispered, his breath misting feather-light on the sword's polished surface, "We're coming for you."


	22. The Sun at Midnight

**AN:** Once again, Blue River steel belongs to the incomparable elecktrum. And yes, the big cats' names come from the spot-on T.S. Eliot. All (ok, except the cats) are used with permission – many thanks!

* * *

_In the stormy east-wind straining,  
The pale yellow woods were waning,  
The broad stream in his banks complaining,  
Heavily the low sky raining  
Over tower'd Camelot; …  
And down the river's dim expanse—  
Like some bold seer in a trance,  
Seeing all his own mischance—  
With a glassy countenance  
Did she look to Camelot.  
+ The Lady of Shalott_, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, lines 118-122, 127-131

**XVIII. The Sun at Midnight**

When Edmund finally returned to the bright sunshine from his cabin, he found various members of the expedition assembling there on deck. All in all, it made for a very crowded space. Two of Susan's dedicated bodyguard, mountain lion Mistoffelees and black jaguar Quaxo, had braved the ocean journey and now lay stretched out rather insolently to their full length. They sunned themselves contendedly as they waited to go ashore, their glossy coats soaking up warmth, and their intimidating presence causing passing sailors to step carefully around them.

Nutter, Jolly, and Scampertigg, Lucy's squirrel scouts and companions, ran wild through the rigging, driving the poor Galman sailors nearly to distraction. Edmund's own honor guard on this particular trip, the wolves Carrack and Alpin, lay with their heads on their paws, their sharp eyes and pricked ears missing nothing. Carrack, though, did look a little green, and he look he sent his king was rather mournful. "I know," the young man said, stopping to place his hand gently on the wolf's heavy silver ruff, "Not long now."

"No," Carrack said, quite miserably, lifting his head briefly, "Not long at all, King Edmund."

Edmund smiled. "Bear up, my friend," he said and the wolf chuffed a bit before burying his blocky nose in his paws again. The young king stood and made his way up to the quarter deck where Captain Carmine stood with a sailor who held sounding chains. "And a pleasant forenoon to you, Captain," he said, "I take it you have found a suitable anchorage?"

The hearty old man, his face worn to a nut-brown by his years spent at sea, nodded, a grin and its subsequent flash of gold splitting his face. "Aye, majesty," he said, "An' a lovelier spot for settlin' as I'v' e'er seen. 'Twill keep our girl as safe as a leddie in her bed, have ye ney fear, highness."

"Oh, I do not worry, not about this ship, not while she's in your hands, Captain," Edmund replied, "If you say this is a good spot, then it is. But tell me," he folded his arms and jerked his head at the wooded island forward, just off the starboard bow, "What do you think of that?"

Carmine rubbed his bearded and braided chin thoughtfully. "Well, now, highness, I'm not yer best judge 'f land." His dark brown eyes met Edmund's, shrewd and speculating. "Looks like en isle t' me, an' thet's the truth 'f it."

The young man returned his gaze to Murano and considered. Indeed, it was simply an island, a land-mass of finite size and familiar terrain – at least a sandy beach and forested shore. Nothing to fear, at least not on this end of its perimeter. Who knew what awaited them at its heart?

Most likely, he thought sourly, a brace of dragons commanded by a sorceress who had Peter enchanted and hexed six ways from Sunday. He straightened his shoulders, hearing the leather of his armor creak and remembering all too clearly images of the nightmares Susan had spun for them. Edmund shuddered. By the Lion's mane, the absolute last thing he wanted to do was face his brother in mortal combat. _Aslan, please, don't let it come to that…_

"Yer majesty?" Captain Carmine interjected as unobtrusively as possible, and the king shook himself slightly, the long braided tassels and their carved amber beads and medallions hanging from his armor tapping gently against him with the movement. "We kn' send ye ashore as soon as ye wish it, followin' us droppin' anchor," the Galman continued, "Will thet be satisfactory?"

Edmund nodded. "Yes, thank you, that should be fine. It will give us time to gather ourselves." He acknowledged the captain's short bow and departure with a perfunctory wave of his hand and then stood watching the sailors at work, keeping pace by singing together in a very off-key chant while the huge anchor chain rattled noisily through the hawse pipes. Their fellows furled the sails and made the canvas fast, scampering up and down the rigging with an ease the young man envied, although he was very glad he did not have to put up with the darting squirrels.

Susan and Lucy joined him then, clad in their own light mail over padded tunics and stocking leggings, feet encased in sturdy, knee-high boots, wrists wrapped in intricately tooled leather bracers, and long hair bound in braids wound about their heads and crowns. Both bore their bows and full quivers, and each wore a matched set of long, slender Blue River daggers on her hips. The Horn swung gently just against Susan's side, within easy reach. Lucy had her red leather strap slung over her shoulder and snugged securely across her chest, and the little diamond bottle rested at her waist, still more than half full of the precious cordial.

A rush of wings interrupted their greeting, and Edmund glanced up, squinting into the sun, as his chief scout, the falcon, Brighteye, and a number of his wing-mates came spiraling down for a noisy landing on their perches.

"Well met, friends," said Edmund, "What news?"

Brighteye bobbed his head in a short bow and blinked, the whole of his small being radiating the pleasure of flight on such a beautiful day. "Majesties," he said, his high-pitched, curiously dry voice exhilarated, "We have made an examination of the whole island, as you requested, my lord. It is quite small, sire, and heavy with trees."

"And what of its people?" the young king asked, finding his heartbeat quickening in anticipation of the answer.

"We saw no one, my king," responded one of the hawks, Swiftbeak by name, "Either dead or living. Many small and dumb animals, but no Sons of Adam or Daughters of Eve."

Edmund blinked, taken aback by surprise. No one? How could that be?

Susan frowned. "There were no signs of habitation anywhere?" she asked, "Are you certain?"

The chief falcon bobbed again, and shifted a bit on his perch, his long, cruel talons digging into the soft wood. "We are certain, highness," he said, "Near this southernmost end of the island there is a shallow valley, the only such clearing extant. A little river runs through it. But again, majesties, we saw no signs of life beyond animals, and not even many of them."

"There were, however, tumbled human buildings in this meadow," interjected another falcon, Redtail, "Such as an aerie might look if left abandoned for many lifetimes."

The three sovereigns looked at one another in bewilderment. "I do admit this is extremely curious," Lucy said, "However, it changes nothing in my opinion. If Aslan said Peter is here, he _is_ here. We simply have to look." Susan nodded, tightlipped.

"Agreed, sisters," replied Edmund, "In fact, such tidings only make me all the more anxious." He looked back to his scouts. "My thanks are yours, good friends," he said, "I would ask you to continue your patrol of the island while we make landfall. Bring me news as you see fit – anything odd or strange or abnormal – I trust your eyesight and your judgment. May the wind prove steady beneath your wings."

"And see you safely to your journey's end," responded Brighteye with another bob, and then he and his fellows took flight, soaring up into the blue sky in a tight, arrow formation before breaking and scattering to perform their airs above ground.

* * *

It took the better part of the next two hours to ferry everyone from the _Atropos_over to Murano. Swinging the wolves and big cats down to the ship's boats in their specially made basket proved to be something of a challenge and one the aforementioned creatures disliked immensely, although they endured uncomplaining. Upon reaching land, Mistoffelees and Quaxo immediately sat and began grooming themselves with their rough, pink tongues, and Carrack and Alpin shook themselves from tip to tail and ran a short circuit down the beach and back, stretching their cramped muscles and working off their seasickness. Only the squirrels had not been bothered one little bit, and they scampered into the woods as though they hadn't seen trees in a millennium.

The sailors who had rowed them in beached the ship's boats and settled down to wait, lighting pipes and leaning back against the boats' wooden sides, while Susan, Edmund, and Lucy surveyed the scene before them. Captain Carmine had indeed chosen well, for the _Atropos_ swung at anchor in a natural bay, and the beach curved in a shallow crescent, pushing back into the forest and creating an open space before meeting the gray limestone bluffs that peeked from between the green foliage.

"Those look inviting," Susan remarked, her arms crossed and her eyes squinting, "I'd say we're in for some rough climbing if we try to head straight in."

"Climbing is no hardship, my queen," said Mistoffelees, his yellow eyes narrowed, "We would see you safely over."

She glanced down at him, a bemused smile pulling at the corners of her lovely mouth. "I have no doubt you would, cousin," she said, "but then we would be leaving our companions behind. That would never do."

"It is not our fault some cannot keep up," Quaxo put in, nearly purring as he cast a surreptitious glance towards the wolves. Alpin snarled, pulling back his black lips to expose long white fangs, but Carrack merely blinked patiently. The jaguar lifted one massive paw and licked delicately between the pads, sliding his deadly sharp claws from their sheaths and flexing them slightly.

"Enough," said Susan sternly, "Such infantile silliness becomes you not at all. I will have no more of it, Quaxo."

The jaguar wound his long tail around his hind end and front legs and gazed up at his queen with limpid, innocent eyes before yawning mightily. Edmund heard a very quiet snort come from Lucy's direction, and he had to admit she was right. Cats, whether big or little, managed to make one feel quite insignificant and rather foolish most of the time, especially when they were in the wrong, and he much preferred the straightforwardness of his wolves. Susan loved her bodyguard, however, and they answered her with fierce and unwavering devotion, so much so that they actually listened to her commands and did as she asked immediately – a concession granted to no one else in Narnia.

"Well then," said his younger sister impatiently, "If the way ahead is too rough, how do we proceed?"

The king swept his gaze over the beach and silently went over what his scouts had reported. After a moment's contemplation he had his answer. "A river," he said suddenly, "Brighteye mentioned a river running through this valley. Certainly it runs to the sea, and if so, it will be a simple matter to follow the beach around until we come to the conjunction of the two waters."

"Do we go to the left, then, or the right?" asked Susan.

"If the island is as small as Brighteye says, either direction should be sufficient," put in Carrack quietly, "We should strike the river mouth whichever way we take."

Lucy clapped in sudden delight. "That's an excellent idea!" she said, and putting two fingers to her mouth, she uttered a high, piercing whistle, making Susan, the wolves, and the big cats wince. Eventually, all three squirrels burst from the tree line and bounced happily over the sand back to their mistress.

"We are ready!" Jolly crowed. "Send us forth!" Nutter exclaimed. "We live to serve!" Scampertigg cried, and all three snapped to attention with their bushy tails standing straight up behind them and their tiny paws at the salute. Susan and Edmund were suddenly taken with a severe coughing fit, and Lucy, though admittedly amused, beamed with affectionate pride.

There were a few moments of confusion after this, but eventually, directions were given and signals were arranged, water skins and packets of food were slung over shoulders in small rucksacks, and the three sovereigns set off over shining sand. The wolves trotted ahead with heads up and noses to the wind. Lucy and Susan sent the squirrels and the big cats to the woods alongside and ahead of them to make a circuit of the island's interior, the oldest queen gently reminding her royal guard that the three chatterboxes were not lunches on legs. Mistoffelees gave her a look that was equal parts reproach and regret before darting into the forest with liquid speed and vanishing instantly.

The sun shone bright, scorching, a searing, brilliant jewel in the clear, cloudless, expanse of burning blue sky. Occasionally a falcon or hawk would soar by overhead, calling out in their keen, high voices, although they brought no new news. Trudging through sand was never easy going, and after only a few minutes, Edmund felt sweat trickling between his shoulder blades and tracing itchy lines down his back. Susan's face was creased in a perpetual frown, and black strands of hair stuck to her damp forehead. Even irrepressible Lucy looked hot and cross, though she said nothing. The wolves were panting, their tongues lolling from their mouths and their pace slackening. All were quite grateful when they finally struck the mouth of the river and were able to head inland, at least into the shade of the trees. There they paused, puffing, before filling the water skins with the clear, fresh water.

"This is not normal, brother," said Susan as she took a long draught. "I am sweltering, tired, and quite ready to give up and return to the _Atropos_. Something is amiss."

Edmund took a deep breath of the stuffy air, tasting pine resin and dust. "I feel it also, Su," he returned, "It seems likely that we are laboring beneath some enchantment."

"The 'stop-and-go-away' sort," said Lucy dourly, adjusting the daggers at her hips, "Well, whoever it is will find turning us around rather difficult. Let's keep on and make them keenly regret their efforts."

"Agreed, majesty," growled Alpin, and after a few more moments' rest, they set off once more.

The going was rough and slow, with tangled undergrowth, gnarled, thorny bushes, thick stands of saplings, tumbled logs, and uneven ground making speed nearly impossible. Following the river became a challenge, as the bank was high, steep, and crumbling in places, and long lines of mighty trees marched along the top. Huge rocks began to appear here and there, grey and covered with lichen and moss, some looming as big as elephants. They generally seemed to be right where the party needed to pass, and the constant shifting of direction, always being forced down and to the right, away from the river, began to take its toll. Tempers began first to shorten and then to flare, and when Edmund yelled at Lucy for losing patience and trying to cut through a sticker bush with her knives, dulling their sharp edges, his younger sister hollered right back, her pretty face reddening. The forest rang.

"This is _ridiculous_!" Susan cried shrilly, stamping her booted foot in the ferns. "Are you two years old? Bad form, _both_ of you; not to mention you're giving right in to the magic here!"

Her brother and sister stopped short in mid-shout and at least had the grace to look ashamed immediately. "Indeed," Edmund said finally, embarrassment coloring his tone, "My apologies, Lu. Spells or no, I should not have behaved so. Make it Pax?"

She took his proffered hand with a small smile. "Pax, Ed. I'm sorry, too."

"Majesties," said Carrack, after a respectful heartbeat or two of silence, "This is indeed hostile ground. The sooner we find the High King and show this place our heels, the easier I, and no doubt all of Narnia, will feel. Shall we continue?"

The young king set his jaw grimly and indicated the clearer pathway leading again to their right. "Indeed, cousin. Lead the way."

* * *

Another hour's worth of swearing, sweating, and stumbling through ensnaring brush and bracken found the rescue party breaking at last into the wide valley. The three monarchs stopped just into the meadow, breathing hard, and took in the sight, their eyes following the river as it swooped down out of the forest over a good way to their left and curved through the green, waving grasses to climb the rapidly rising ground on the far side of the open space.

Edmund whistled low between his teeth and used an expression that used to be second nature to him and still came out when he was greatly startled or surprised. "Well, I'm jiggered," he said in a hushed voice, "Redtail was right."

"Is that a castle?" Lucy asked tentatively, not sure if she should believe what she saw.

"It looks more like the ruins of a castle to me, Lu," the young king replied, "but a castle, definitely."

"I like not the smell of things, highness," said Alpin, sniffing at the air emphatically, "There is something foul beneath the wind here."

Edmund looked down at him and then back at the valley, his dark eyes narrowed. "I believe you, good Alpin," he said, "We shall proceed with care. Where have your cats gone, Susan?"

When there was no response, he glanced over to see the eldest queen gazing at the castle, disquiet twisting her features. "I…I do not know…" she replied, distracted. "They should be coming soon…"

"Are you well, sister?" asked Lucy, placing a steadying hand on Susan's arm. "Have you dreamed of this place – the ruins?"

The young woman blinked slowly, furrowing her brow in confusion. "I am not at all certain, although it _seems_ familiar. It's all so muddled… Peter is…I do not know..." Her voice broke slightly, and she made a visible effort to pull herself back together, straightening her back and gripping one of her daggers.

"Let us descend into the valley and make an approach," said Edmund, "And we will see where Aslan leads us from there. Carrack, Alpin…"

His royal guard came to either side of him, and the young king placed his hands on their heads, hunching slightly and speaking very quietly and very quickly – words his sisters had no hope of understanding, but he knew the two wolves heard every syllable. They growled, low in their chests, and then broke into a loping run, moving down into the valley with wary speed, their fur bristling, ears pricked, and fangs showing.

The king and queens followed, pushing through long, thick grasses and remaining alert and mindful of their surroundings. Edmund went first, his steps sure, his movements sinuous and graceful, his head up, nostrils flared, testing the wind. Lucy could see him slipping into what she privately called his 'wolf' personality and checked a small smile. Though she found it amusing, she had seen how deadly he was and knew he was not to be trifled with when in such a mood. She and Susan strung their bows and nocked arrows, and they came behind their brother cautiously.

When they reached the valley floor, Edmund stopped and held up his gloved hand. Carrack and Alpin had separated and swung to the left and the right, and now they circled back around by the river and came back towards their sovereigns at a swift trot.

"We are greatly unsettled, majesties," said Carrack roughly, panting a bit, "There are spirits here in this valley."

"Spirits?" Lucy asked uneasily, glancing about the grassy swath running down to the river and the huge willow trees there. "I perceive nothing."

Edmund had drawn his Blue River dagger and stood with his feet set apart, his entire being suddenly radiating controlled violence. "Trusting only your eyes is foolish, Lucy, and you know it well. Where are these spirits, Carrack?"

"All about us," came the answer, in a hoarse, haunted whisper that only just resembled Susan's voice. Edmund and Lucy whirled to see their sister white-faced, wild and staring, seeing entirely beyond them. "An entire village of them, in fact."

"Have they reacted to our presence?" Edmund questioned intently, "Are they…aware of us?"

Lucy felt the small hairs along her forearms and the back of her neck stand on end, and she squinted, her fingers tightening around the arrow's fletching. Susan looked about them, focusing on the unseen, almost otherworldly in her beauty. "No," she finally replied, "They do not seem to notice us and go about their business. They appear to be benign."

Edmund turned again to face the river and the castle rising in ruins beyond. "In truth, sister," he said darkly, "I do not find that comforting."


	23. Crimson Rain

**AN:** (slides temperature knob a few clicks to the 'heat' side) Am ramping up the intensity just the tiniest bit in this chappie. Here there be dragons; ye have been gently warned. Many thanks to elecktrum for taking advantage of that backstage pass. (smile)

* * *

_Blood rains  
From the cloudy web  
On the broad loom  
Of slaughter.  
The web of man,  
Grey as armour,  
Is now being woven;  
The Valkyries  
Will cross it  
With a crimson welt. ..._

_It is horrible now  
To look around,  
As a blood-red cloud  
Darkens the sky.  
The heavens are stained  
With the blood of men,  
As the Valkyries  
Sing their song._  
+ verses from _Song of the Spear_ from _Njal's Saga,_ translated by Magnus Magnusson and Hermann Palsson

**XVIII. Crimson Rain**

Hot water spattered all over the fine wood of the nightstand as Peter scooped up a huge handful and threw it straight in his face. Spluttering, he plunged both hands in the basin for a second dousing, feeling inclined just to pick up the pitcher and dump its contents over his head. Lion's mane, he was a mess, pulling fiercely at every ounce of discipline he possessed to stay in the tower room and not simply bolt back down to the courtyard and succumb to Lady Rua's frightening charm. He hadn't had the fortitude to stay with her any longer. A few minutes more in her presence and he would have done something reprehensible.

He helped himself to more water and scrubbed at his hair, noticing its ragged length. Huffing in annoyance, he ran his hand over the back of his neck, feeling the sting of half-healed wounds. The tiny shocks of pain once again brought a small measure of sanity, and Peter took a deep breath. Working himself up into a frenzy was not going to help – he must be calm and reasonable if he was going to survive this adventure whole and living. Break the facts down into logical order, he thought sternly, beginning to unwind the grimy bandaging from his torso.

First, the Lady was obviously a sorceress of some kind and just as obviously stark raving mad. Causes for worry to be sure, but in truth, he found himself much more terrified by his reaction to her in spite of all he had learned. He felt as though he was standing back at a distance, watching his body, soul, and mind being tugged back and forth, back and forth between common sense revulsion, healthy fear, and insane attraction. Something had to give, and it could _not_ be his self-control. Failure here was not an option; so next, analyze the desire and quash it ruthlessly.

It was more than just her sensuous beauty, the High King decided finally as he threw the strips of cloth to the floor and dipped into the basin again. Here was a woman who looked to match him strength for strength, who seemingly found satisfaction and fulfillment in the weapons of war as he did, and who could add her power to his prowess, thus joining him completely in battle. Aside from the fact that she was clearly psychopathic, he found these traits rather refreshing. Or perhaps, a sarcastic little voice remarked, it was actually her appearance after all. "And that," he said aloud, quite aware he was mentally sticking out his tongue at himself, "is why I fled. So there."

The water cascaded down his chest, back, and arms, dripping in a trickling waterfall upon the rug – normally an indiscretion for which Palomnus would have had his head. Peter was beyond caring. He felt refreshed beyond words even without soap and a good scrubbing, and he finally gave in and tipped the remaining contents of the pitcher over his shoulders, sighing faintly as he bathed in abundant warmth.

Taking up the white towel, the young man sopped up the glistening beads of moisture, pausing as he came to his chest. If Lady Rua had been telling him truth, then his ribs were still broken, crushed almost beyond repair, still in need of real healing. The notion was more than disturbing; it was downright petrifying, and he poked at his skin, here and there, still finding nothing but hard bone. Her skill must be considerable if she could maintain an illusion like that for the length of time he'd been on the island.

Peter shuddered and threw the damp cloth back onto the nightstand, pushing the thought back into the recesses of his mind. It wouldn't do to dwell on his fear, or he would end up gibbering in a corner, going nowhere. He removed the sword belt, changed swiftly into the clean hose and was just slipping the soft blue tunic onto his arms and pulling it down over his head when there was a whisper of movement behind him and warm fingers touched his skin. His entire body went rigid with tension, and he was rewarded with a quiet laugh.

"My champion, you need have no fear. I grew weary of waiting for your return and came to offer you my assistance. You have gone too long without proper care. Let me help you."

The High King yanked the tunic down and roughly shoved her hands away. "No," he said tersely, still facing the nightstand. She took a step back from him, and for a brief moment he thought she might have gone. Then he felt the weight of the belt against his hips, and her arms wrapped around his waist, crossing the leather ends.

"Your sword, sir knight," she said, and he viciously forced himself to ignore the heat crisping the edges of her words. He took the belt in his own hands and swiftly fastened the buckle, and then he bent forward and picked up Muriel's doll, the abrasive cornhusk crackling as he tucked it back into place. He blessed the little girl for her gift, as it was one of the only things keeping him focused, and ran one finger down its corn silk hair.

Gently, the Lady began to knead the muscles of his shoulders and neck, avoiding his wounds, the strength in her touch evident, the pressure perfect. "Be at peace, my champion," she said, "Why do you resist? You only delay the inevitable and deny yourself refreshment and much pleasure in the meanwhile."

His eyes closed, Peter clenched his jaw. "Lady, what do you want of me?" he asked, strain evident in his voice, "Tell me and then let us have done, for I cannot and will not stay with you."

Her fingers stilled, pinched, and then her right hand moved down to the tattoo and squeezed. He jerked as a sharp needle of ice stabbed through his arm, and a muffled exhalation exploded from his lips, despite his efforts. "Good knight, you know not what you say," she said sweetly, though he could clearly hear the warning beneath, "In truth, sir, I hold your death, both now and forever, and you would be wise to join yourself to me willingly."

"You delude yourself, Lady," he returned, breathing a bit heavier from the hurt in his arm and the sudden, terrible ache in his chest, "The hour and manner of my death is known to no one, save perhaps Aslan, and he rightly keeps his own counsel on such matters."

The pain and the pressure increased tenfold, and he grunted, bending forward reflexively, one hand splaying over his ribcage. "_Aslan_," she hissed, as if she spoke of something unbearably poisonous. One minute and then another ticked by, filled with wringing anxiety.

Abruptly she released him, and the High King stumbled, catching himself on the nightstand. "You wish to know what I ask of you, Sir Peter?" she asked, and he turned to face her at last, straightening with effort although the heavy discomfort in his chest was gone.

"Yes," he replied, "I do."

Her face tightened, and her eyes gleamed, and her red lips opened slightly. "Heal me," she said, pleading yet proud. "One drop of your blood, a vow sworn, and I will be freed. Serve me, and we will destroy our enemies."

Peter said nothing, and his expression was set stone, flinty, hard and unyielding.

"You cannot find it in your heart to assist me in my need?" she asked, "Then let me show you what glory awaits us, my champion. Perhaps you will be persuaded."

Lady Rua took a swift step forward and placed a hand on either side of his head, palms flat. Before he had time to pull away, she muttered a few words in an unknown language. Peter stiffened with shock and alarm and then cried out as unexpected agony erupted, time bent, and reality exploded in a radiant starburst of swirling color around them both…

…_settling once more into stark shades of red and black and grey; ash and smoke and blood choked the air. Flames raged, the heat searing him through his armor, though he stood a great distance from the pyres. His unsheathed sword shone scarlet in the firelight, gore running black from its blade. Lifting a hand, he raised the visor on his helmet, inhaling and tasting the cloyingly sweet miasma, savoring the flavor as though it was the finest wine. He never tired of this, the smell of death, of devastation; his eyes closed for a moment in reverence and then opened again, surveying the chaos he and his fey army had wrought._

_He stood on a broad battlefield, elevated above its surface on a hill of fresh corpses, all of which had perished by his hand – at his will and her command. A fierce, unalloyed joy ran through him as he beheld his handiwork, and he raised the sword above his head in triumph, stabbing the sky. "I am the Destroyer, Eater of Worlds!" he proclaimed, and his voice rolled like thunder across the plain. He knew those still alive who heard, those who had not yet been hunted, cowered and shivered behind walls constructed of their comrades' bodies. Their end was inevitable; their turn to face him would come. _

"_I serve the Phantom Queen, the Crow, and come in Her name," he continued, his gaze piercing the haze, sweeping the field, noting movement. He tightened his grip on the sword. "Bow and acknowledge her sovereignty, and she may let you live." Perhaps a lie, perhaps not – his Queen was notoriously capricious._

_There it was again, a small black shape stirring to his left, crawling from beneath the ruin of a siege machine - a man perhaps? Good, it would be a refreshing change from all this vermin, though they had acquitted themselves well. He always admired his enemies' will to fight. It fed his fervor, spurred him on to greater feats and displays of skill, and this pleased his Lady. _

"_If you resist, you will be laid to waste and utterly wiped from the face of the earth. This is my word and the word of my Queen. Heed it well."_

_Yes, it was a man, for he had struggled to his feet and now made his way forward, lurching, swaying, but coming ever onwards._

_The Destroyer smiled, and he wished his opponent was close enough to see it, for his mirth was a terrible thing to behold. He shook the coagulating blood from his sword with a flick of his wrist and strode forward, his heavy boots cracking skulls, snapping bone. With a look and a gesture, he bade his fell creatures to stand back. This man was his prey to confront and kill as he wished._

"_Who comes, thus, to challenge me?" he asked and was slightly surprised to hear nothing shouted in return, no cries of hatred, no oaths of revenge. The man drew nearer, until he stopped nearly a rod's length away, and still, he said nothing. His face was bathed in the flickering light of the pyres, and tears flowed unchecked down his cheeks._

_In spite of his deep desire to initiate this fight, to test his proficiency against this stranger, to delight in first blood spilt, the Destroyer found himself curiously affected by this display of sorrow. "Why do you weep, sir knight?" he questioned._

_Dark eyes closed wearily and then opened again, gleaming. "If you must ask me this, then you are lost," his opponent responded, speaking as one who had no hope._

"_Very well," the answer was matter-of-fact. "Then let us delay no further," a roll of the shoulders, shield up, blade angled at the ready. "Come, test yourself against me."_

"_This is treason, you know," said the stranger, bleak amusement bleeding from his tone. He lifted his sword and drew a slender dagger from his belt. He had no shield. "But I'll be damned if I let you go through with it." A brutal, pained smile crossed his face in spite of his mysterious grief, promising nothing but death. "I **will** kill you. If I must."_

_And he attacked, moving so swiftly that the Destroyer barely had time to raise his shield to block the hammer blow. He twisted, the dagger slashing into his side, coming in a lightning thrust from the other direction, grating against armor and glancing off. His own strike went wide, for the stranger was no longer there. He had whirled out of reach, his feet skipping nimbly between the corpses and over the rough ground, the long, leather fringes on his armor spinning with him, their woven medallions sparking golden in the firelight. Just as quickly, before shock faded, the knight darted forward again, and there came another sting as the dagger slipped in and nicked the Destroyer on the arm._

_Berserker rage flooded his senses. Who did this arrogant pup think he was? A hoarse cry flew from his lips as he went on the offensive, and their blades met for the first time with a horrific shock, steel screaming and scraping: clarion calls, ringing, echoing over the field of battle. Muscle began to burn, sweat soaked already damp undertunics, armor shifted and dented, blows were met, parried, turned aside, deflected, diverted, and still the dance of death continued, both partners undaunted and untiring. _

_The Destroyer was confounded. How could this be? Not one of his previous adversaries had ever given him the challenge that this man presented. It was completely unexpected, but perhaps it was for the best. This was a true test of his power, and a victory here would be cherished, relished. He found himself actually beginning to enjoy their exchange. This knight was a worthy enemy indeed. For that, his death would be quick and honorable._

_But they went on and onward further, and the fighting soon began to turn vicious, unscrupulous, desperate. Elbows, pommels, and helmets rammed, smashing heartlessly, furiously into chins and faces and stomachs; feet kicked at ankles and knees, hooking, jerking, tripping; flung sprays of dirt stung and abraded. And always, always, swords and dagger flashed, mesmerizing, whistling a murderous tune, whirling, threatening, pressing, battering, and driving, driving, driving, one man the other. _

_Neither had the upper hand for long – the advantage swung from knight to knight, back and forth in a deadly game of Tig, but eventually the terrific pace of their contest at last began to catch them out. Swings grew wilder, parries sloppier, falters more frequent. Vivid bruises blossomed on each of their faces and blood coated their skin, running from broken noses, lacerated mouths, and a multitude of shallow cuts here and there; breath came harder, panting, labored._

_And then, almost before either had time to think or understand, it finally happened. Perhaps the strange knight had simply grown too tired. Perhaps he knew there was no chance of victory and so deliberately allowed an opening. Whatever his reason, whatever the cause, for just an instant, the Destroyer saw the flash of unprotected throat – the chin lifted, just enough to expose the jugular, and he acted without thought, batting aside a weakened parry offered up as defense. The slick, wet feeling of his blade cleaving flesh and then meeting the shock of bone traveled up his arm, a thick, crimson rain of the knight's lifeblood covered them both, and in the sudden stillness of their combat, their surprised eyes met._

_His sword and dagger dropping to the ground, the stranger choked and convulsed once, the movement barely perceptible, before his eyes dulled and drained completely of their rich brown color. His spirit fled, leaving the Destroyer alone and exultant. As he placed a booted foot on his adversary's torso and shoved the body off his blade, the sound of wings drew his attention upwards, to the black, fire-spangled sky._

_The Lady's crow battalions gathered around him, heralding the arrival of his Queen. And when she appeared before him, her hair wild and untamed, spiraling behind her in a crackling flame, her long dress splattered with the blood running from both her hands, her face alight with pride, lust, and fierce joy, he went down on one knee, his sword reversed before him._

"_Hail, Lady," he said, "I am victorious."_

_And she smiled and raised him up, undoing the chin strap of his helmet and lifting it off, throwing it away. She wound her arms about his neck and pressed her mouth and her body to his, heedless of the blood and thoughtless of any discomfort, threading her fingers through his hair, scratching, pulling, bending him to her will. In return, he kissed her harder, bruising, breathless, his arms sliding around her waist, drawing her tightly against him, their ardor nearly overwhelming him, blazing, burning him from the inside out. Her lips parted slightly, inviting him deeper, and he willingly complied, white light flaring behind closed eyelids, the world tilting, spinning, completely out of control…_

…bringing him back to himself, standing in the tower room, still tasting her lips, his hands gripping her waist. The change burst against him like a supernova and rolled over him like a tidal wave, its power and impact staggering, nauseating.

Peter collapsed against her, shaking uncontrollably, his chest heaving in harsh sobs. He could hardly stand, and when his strength gave, he crashed down on both knees, burying his face in the hem of her kirtle, his fists clenched so hard they hurt and his teeth gritted against the tremors. He was only dimly aware of her hand on his head, stroking his hair, and her voice murmuring something soft, although she also sounded faintly amused.

"Was it not everything I described? Did you not find yourself satisfied, your longing fulfilled?" Her questions were full of her smile, knowing, presumptuous of the answer.

He quivered, silent, working up the courage to speak. _Aslan, where are you? Oh, Aslan, Great Lion, _**_help me, _**_**help me**, **help me, **for I know not what I do… Aslan, **please**…come to my aid…give me succor…_

"Please," he gasped finally, "Please, give me one night to make ready…" He shivered harder, the trembling cutting off his words. "Just one… I must be worthy… Please, Lady, I beg you…"

Lady Rua laughed, and her fingers tightened. "Very well, my champion. You may have your night."

She withdrew her skirts from his grasp and left the room just as silently as she had come, and the High King was left alone and bereft, shattered with the knowledge that vision or not, he had murdered his brother – and thoroughly enjoyed every moment.


	24. In Medias Res

_She left the web, she left the loom,  
She made three paces thro' the room,  
She saw the water-lily bloom,  
She saw the helmet and the plume,  
She look'd down to Camelot.  
Out flew the web and floated wide,  
The mirror crack'd from side to side;_  
'_The curse is come upon me!' cried  
The Lady of Shalott  
+ The Lady of Shalott_, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, lines 109-117

**XIX. In Medias Res **

Her gaze drawn towards the castle ruins sitting silently above her, Lucy paced at the edge of the river, her bow still at the ready. She had never been one for ghost stories, even though her good sense knew she could not be harmed, and the revelation that a small village of spirits occupied the valley floor made her nervous. Was Peter here somewhere? Was he among these specters, insubstantial mist himself? If so, what did that mean? Was he there in those ruins? Aslan had said her brother was alive, and she trusted the Great Lion implicitly, but she did admit to being rather confused.

The young queen looked back behind her to see her brother and sister standing and conversing quietly, while Carrack and Alpin prowled the meadow edges, sniffing here and there. Edmund had sheathed his dagger and stood with his arms crossed, while Susan balanced her bow on the ground in front of her, her eyes roaming, still seeing the unseen. The warm tones of the setting sun bathed them both in clear buttery hues, winking, sparkling off of steel and amber, gold and silver, casting their shadows long over the ground. Lucy felt a pang touch her heart, glad in spite of her worry that the majority of her family was safe and unharmed.

She turned to regard the castle again and began looking for a way to cross the river, wondering what she would find if she explored the ruins. They had been investigating this clearing for most of the afternoon, and yet had not attempted to enter the castle. Why? The thought struck her hard. Wouldn't this be a logical place to start? Why had they not searched there first of all? The enchantment perhaps? Well, perhaps she should find out for herself. Her suddenly determined steps led her down beside the riverbank and towards the great willows.

"Lucy!" came Edmund's shout, "Be wary!"

"I will!" she yelled back, "I'm simply looking!"

A light breeze had picked up, though it was still very warm, and the long, skeletal branches of the trees swayed gently as she passed them, the leaves rustling as though the willows were trying to speak. Lucy stopped short suddenly, a prickling running along the back of her neck and down her back and arms. _Was_ the tree talking? Could there be dryads here on this island? She hunched a bit, peering through the waving fronds to get a better glimpse of the trunks, hoping to see a pleasant, woody face smiling back at her.

Nothing. Instead, as she drew back in disappointment and began to continue on her way, a small flash of white caught the corner of her eye. With a start, the young queen whirled, squinted, and then dashed for the willow, pushing aside the branches and dropping to her knees beside an open bundle wedged there between the tree roots. She hastily thrust the arrow back into her quiver, set aside her bow, and pulled apart the edges of the blanket, her hands trembling and unexpected tears starting to her eyes.

"Lu?" Susan was calling for her, and she heard the pounding footsteps of her brother and sister as they came running to see what had disturbed her so. "Lucy! What has happened?"

The willow fronds were swept aside by Edmund's gloved hand, and the young woman held up the smaller packet of half eaten provisions. "Peter _is_ here!" she cried, excitement written on her face, "See?"

Susan stared and then raised her eyebrows. "I don't discount your words or your discovery, sister," she said, "but how do you know?"

Edmund stepped forward and went to one knee beside Lucy. He took the provisions from her, and she rummaged in the bundle further, pulling out a small skin, heavy with water. "These are from the _Indefatigable_," he said, bending back the cloth holding the dried fruit. Stamped clearly on the edge in black ink was the royal seal of Narnia alongside Peter's rampant lion.

"He's here," Lucy whispered again, running her fingers over the blanket bundle and its contents.

"Most likely that's true," Edmund said, "And judging from the state of these, he was here fairly recently." He stood and went out into the sunlight again, calling out to the wolves.

"Do you see anything else?" Lucy scanned the area, hoping to spot more of her brother's belongings discarded among the roots.

Susan smiled briefly. "Well, I do see a small girl."

Her sister's head snapped up, and she scrambled to her feet and stepped back to stand beside the older queen. "What?" she asked, "Where?"

Susan pointed to a spot on the other side, and Lucy narrowed her eyes. "Does she see us?" she asked.

"No," Susan replied, "but I think she sees that the bundle is gone. She seems rather distressed."

"So she can see the supplies? But she can't see us? Oi, my head is starting to ache, Su," Lucy said, pressing a palm to her forehead, "This is really too much."

Smiling again, though her mirth was touched with bitter sadness, the elder sister slipped her arm beneath the younger queen's quiver and around her waist. "Yes," she replied, "It is. But what that little girl's reaction tells me is – if she could see Peter's bundle of provisions, then most likely she was able to see him. And if that is so, then perhaps he received care from these spirits, if spirits they truly are. For even if he arrived on this island alive, he was still at the mercy of his wounds."

The two queens were silent. "Please, Aslan," Lucy whispered fervently, "Keep Peter safe, please. Help us find him soon." Susan gave her sister a comforting squeeze as she murmured her agreement.

"Sisters!" Edmund's voice broke into their prayers with a jolt, "Come, if you please, and join me! Your cats have returned, Su."

Quickly, they stepped out from beneath the willow's sheltering branches to see Quaxo and Mistoffelees bounding down from the forest edge to meet them. Edmund was standing with Carrack and Alpin, still holding the small packet of provisions as though it were precious gold.

"Greetings, majesties," said Mistoffelees, switching his tail as he came smoothly to a stop in front of Susan, "We are pleased to find you here."

"Good cousins, what news do you bring?" asked the eldest queen, "Have you any of the High King?"

Quaxo's golden eyes glanced from side to side briefly before looking up at the three monarchs. "We do," he said, "but first, are your highnesses aware you stand in the midst of spirits?"

Alpin growled low in his chest and took a step forward. "They have real scouts with them, kit," he snarled, "And are completely aware of their circumstances!"

If cats could smile, Lucy would have sworn that Quaxo did so then. His ears twitched. "I am glad," he replied, before turning to Susan and ignoring the wolves completely. Alpin growled again before Edmund placed a soothing hand on his head. "We made a circle of the island, as you requested, my queen," the jaguar said, "and we found nothing until we reached the very northernmost tip."

"There we came across something very curious," Mistoffelees put in, sitting, "Quite near the forest line, actually, so it had been dragged there and overturned." He blinked languorously. "A ship's boat." He paused again, and Lucy had to resist the urge to shout at him. "And the High King stowed it there, as neatly as you please."

"We were able to follow his scent a fair distance," said Quaxo, prompting Carrack to shake his head in amusement and cough, "but lost it near the river, just a few lengths into the woods."

Edmund held out the packet of dried fruit, and the mountain lion sniffed at it gently. "'Tis indeed King Peter, my lord," he said, "Did you find this here?"

"Yes," the young king answered, "Beneath the willows."

The two big cats looked at one another, and Mistoffelees gave Quaxo a short nod. "It is good that his highness came to this meadow," Quaxo said, suddenly serious, all pretense and teasing gone. "For we regret to inform your majesties that he was not well."

"This is known to us," Susan said, "We were aware our brother was gravely wounded. In truth, I am quite astonished that he was able to move from the ship's boat, let alone stow it and make his way inland. Was he alone?"

"Yes, my queen," Quaxo replied, "Quite alone."

"Perhaps Aslan healed him?" Lucy asked, "He could have done, you know."

"Yes," her brother said, "He could indeed, and we will hope that is what took place. Dangerous magic holds sway in this place, however, and I greatly fear that Peter has fallen prey to its power."

The youngest queen turned back to the cats. "Where are my scouts, friends?" she asked, "They were sent with you, were they not?"

Mistoffelees fluffed his whiskers and winked at her with both eyes. "Since we discovered that his highness the High King was laboring beneath his injuries, the small ones decided their talents were best suited to other work. They wished to seek nourishment for his recovery, once he is found. And so we parted ways."

Lucy sighed. "Well," she said, trying her best to ignore the amused looks her brother and sister were giving her, "At least their sentiments are right and correct."

At that very moment, as if they had waited to make a grand entrance, Jolly burst from the tree line, scurrying down the bole of an enormous pine tree at the edge of the valley and leaping through the tall, waving green grasses with his cheeks bulging out from either side of his small head. Nutter and Scampertigg followed, triumph and happiness beaming from their black eyes and evident in every bouncing hop they took.

The big cats and the wolves laughed a bit after the manner of their kind, gentle huffing and coughs, while Edmund chuckled outright. "Truly, sister," he said, "it is good you brought these worthy squirrels along with us. My heart is eased by their service and care for our brother."

The scouts came scampering up to their majesties' feet and after hasty bows, they spat out the nuts they had been carrying and arranged them in a neat pile with quick, precise paws. Nutter snapped a salute. "Your highnesses!" he cried, "We have found a stand of very fine trees! We made the decision to take the best for the High King. He will surely be in need of food!"

The young queen inclined her head with a smile. "You have done well, good cousins," she said approvingly, "and I know the High King will be most grateful and appreciative of your kind thoughts and actions."

"We have little else to report," Scampertigg said, his little black pointed nose quivering in anticipation. "The woods are quiet, and our brothers here lack speech and can tell us naught. May we ask your majesty's permission to continue gathering? For our king? When he is found?"

Lucy's smile widened. "You have my permission with good will," she replied, "Although I ask that you be wary, my friends. All is not well here on this island."

Jolly nodded, and all three of them once again bowed and then saluted smartly. "We know!" he said. "The spirits here are most unusual!" Nutter added. "They smell of life!" Scampertigg said finally, "Not death!" And they were off, their fluffy tails trailing behind them like the tails of three hyperactive comets.

Edmund made a small, irritated sound and crossed his arms again. "It seems, Lu, we are the only two here without the ability to see these spirits. I'm beginning to feel rather left out."

"You know not what you say," Susan said quietly. "Rather count yourself fortunate and favored of Aslan that you do not see as I have seen."

"Be at peace, both of you," Lucy said, touching their arms as she stood between them, "Susan, I know how dreadful it must be to see Peter dying so terribly or becoming something worse…"

"You have no true knowledge of its horror," her sister whispered, her expression becoming tight and withdrawn.

"…but perhaps you have been given these visions for a reason," the youngest queen continued undaunted, impatience warring with empathy. "Perhaps only you can see something in them that will help us. Aslan allows nothing without cause."

Susan's hands tightened on her bow, the knuckles whitening. She smiled resignedly, her face pale. "Indeed. Then I will examine my dreams, if dreams they be, and see what may be found." Turning on her heel, she moved away from them and went down toward the river, the big cats trotting alongside her, until she disappeared beneath the shelter of the willows.

Lucy made as if to go after her, but paused at Edmund's softly spoken, "No, Lu. Let her be."

His sister bit her lip. "I didn't mean to upset her, Ed. I'm worried for her – she seems so haunted."

"Wouldn't you be?" he responded, "You've asked her to think; now give her the time."

After a brief moment of watchful silence, the young king exhaled heavily and suddenly looked far younger than his score and three years, uncertain and weary. "What do you suggest for our next move then, sister?" he asked, rubbing his forehead tiredly, "For evening comes on swift, silent feet, and I am at a loss."

"Dare I believe my ears?" Lucy asked, amazed. "You always have a plan!"

"Not tonight," he replied seriously, "and I desire your council. Please."

The young woman turned to look once more at the castle beyond the river. The tumbled stones and crumbling walls loomed up in the gathering darkness, almost taunting them, she thought. "I think we should explore those ruins," she said, "I find it most curious that we have not already done so, and when I tried, I was distracted by Peter's provisions. Whatever power holds sway is concentrated in that place – I _know_ it. And something must be there it does not wish us to find."

"Like Peter?" Edmund mused dryly, and Lucy's mouth dropped open. Her brother reached over and gently closed it. "You look like a fish," he said.

She turned, so excited she quivered. "But that's _it_! Edmund, that's where Peter _is_! Of _course_! How could we be so foolish, so dull, so _blind_?" Lucy reached back into her quiver for an arrow and quickly nocked it to the string. "Come on, Ed, we've got to go get him! Now, while we're focused! So the enchantment won't work!" She started off, a startled exclamation bursting from her lips when his hand closed around her upper arm and tugged her back.

"No, Lucy." The young king held up a hand to forestall her vigorous protests as she rounded on him. "We will stay here. We will stay alert, and we will keep watch. But we must endure the night. I will not approach such a place at its strongest hour. We must trust Aslan to keep Peter until the dawn. When it comes, when the sun rises from the East – with the Great Lion's blessing – we will go up."

"Yes," the youngest queen said, joy giving her face a radiant glow. Her blue eyes narrowed, and her smile turned fierce as she gazed up at the ruins. "Yes. We _will_ go up. And woe betide anyone or anything that stands in our way."

She looked back at her brother. "Let us make camp."


	25. Burn Darkly

**AN: **Extra points to those who recognize the poetry Peter quotes in this chappie… He would go for the lost causes and blazes of glory, wouldn't he? (smile)

* * *

_Wake me up inside  
Call my name and save me from the dark  
Bid my blood to run before I come undone  
Save me from the nothing I've become  
Bring me to life…  
+ Bring Me to Life_, Evanescence 

_Down she came and found a boat  
Beneath a willow left afloat,  
And round about the prow she wrote_  
The Lady of Shalott ..._  
And at the closing of the day  
She loosed the chain and down she lay;  
The broad stream bore her far away,  
The Lady of Shalott__  
+ The Lady of Shalott,_ by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, lines 123-6; 132-5

**XX. Burn Darkly**

Peter did not know how long he lay curled on the crimson rug, but when his tremors finally stilled and he had calmed sufficiently to raise his head, shadows were falling through the narrow window and creeping towards him across the floor. Slowly he sat up, feeling sick to his stomach and rather lightheaded. Illness – lack of food, lack of rest, lack of sanity – had seemingly returned with a vengeance, though now he felt he deserved the discomfort. Sweet Lion, what had he _done_? Had it really been a vision? Was it of the future – of what he could – would – become? Would he – _had he?_ – willingly commit fratricide?

"_Aslan_," he whispered hoarsely, "Help me, please. I don't know what to _do_ – _please_ – I can't vanquish this enemy on my own."

He ground the heels of his palms into his eyes, wishing that gouging them from his head would erase the image of Edmund falling bloody and limp, prey to the hunger of his own brother's blade. "I cannot oppose this enchantment on my own strength," he repeated, bending once more over his knees, his arms wrapped about his middle as he desperately pulled at his shattered edges. "_Please_. I am broken. I _need_ you."

"_Peter…" _

The High King stiffened, his head coming up sharply as every fiber of his being thrilled, ecstatic, to the sound of that voice. Borne on a whisper of the wind, emanating from the stillness around him, his name drifted gently to his ears – at once a siren call and an undeniable command.

"Aslan?" he asked, his voice cracking with thankfulness. He struggled upright, fighting off a sudden attack of dry heaves. "Aslan, are you there?"

Silence reigned, complete and total. The young man could not even hear the sounds of the village, far below, or night birds, or the trees, or even the crows, and the voice did not respond. Peter was utterly alone, and as time passed, blurred, he began to droop, darkness intruding on his senses. As much as he fought against it, the pull was too strong. He was so very, very weary.

But when slumber enveloped him inexorably in blackness and cradled him at last in burning arms, the High King went happily. For he finally had heard a Lion's promise and held it close as deep waters closed over his head.

"_I am here, my son…" _

* * *

"…_come, follow me."_

With the return of conscious thought, Peter found himself suspended in what seemed to be a warm, clinging nothingness. He blinked several times, trying vainly to see, until he gave it up as useless and simply kept his eyes closed to eliminate the strain. Buoyant and unencumbered, he did several accidental somersaults before regaining control over the use of his arms and legs, although he had no real idea if he was right side up or down. He was mildly surprised that the disorienting ambiance wasn't causing him to violently expel the meager contents of his already disturbed stomach.

"Aslan?" he asked uncertainly, his voice echoing oddly – at once deadened by his surroundings and reverberating across unfathomable distances.

_"Hear my voice, Peter,"_ the Great Lion's response came gently, a resonant chord of hope. _"I am waiting for you."_

The young man kicked out, moving smoothly into a swimming stroke, slicing through oblivion. He angled in what he imagined was the correct direction, and much sooner than expected, his bare feet hit a hard and unyielding surface. Sparing a grateful thought that he hadn't arrived standing on his head, he dug in, moving doggedly to safety.

When he broke the surface, he struggled on for a few more yards and then collapsed, unable to go any further, his cheek unexpectedly striking gritty sand. He rested for a moment, feeling the maw of exhaustion sucking at him, trying to drag him back into its all-encompassing embrace.

"_Peter…"_ Aslan's voice came again, insistent and firm. _"Peter, come."_

Slowly, Peter raised himself from where he lay, half-in, half-out of an inky ocean, and viscous water ran from his head, arms, torso, and thighs in long, thick streams as he crawled unsteadily forth. Coughing and shaking the excess sleep from his body, he looked up and a smile of pure joy suffused his face with light. He had found whom he sought.

"Aslan!" he cried gladly, his gaze traveling up from the great paws to the forelegs to the thick mane, the noble face, and the endless, golden eyes.

The Great Lion bent and touched his rough tongue to Peter's forehead. "Welcome, my dear son," he said.

The High King acted then without thought; he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around one of Aslan's forelegs, burying his face deeply. His shoulders shook, and tears fell; trembling, deep sobs welling from the depths of his being, muffled by the thick, richly scented fur. There was no shame in weeping thus, at the Lion's feet, and he trusted he would not be condemned for his actions.

Aslan waited patiently as Peter spent his heartache, and finally the young man sat back upon his knees, his eyes red and his face blotchy. "I am delighted beyond words to see you, Aslan," he said, "Thank you, _thank you_ for hearing me. Oh, I am so _very_ glad you have come."

"You called," the lion replied, "And you are in need. Truly you say this battle cannot be won by strength alone."

Peter shuddered. "Aslan," he said shakily, "Please, what have I done? Have I…" he paused, fear swelling in his breast, moisture staining his face. "Will I – have I… murdered my brother?"

A very quiet growl came from the Lion, and the air trembled. Peter cast himself face down, nearly overcome, his breath coming in hoarse gasps. "Oh, Aslan, Aslan, Aslan, forgive me, please forgive me, forgive me…" he babbled almost incoherently, his fingers clawing into the coarse sand as he waited for judgment, neither desiring nor expecting mercy, wanting only death.

"Peace, Peter," Aslan said, "No, your actions were confined to your vision. Edmund lives."

"I swore I was there," the king whispered, "I could taste the blood."

Aslan narrowed his eyes. "Such is her power," he said, and anger limned his words.

Still possessed with shame, Peter kept his forehead pressed to the ground. "I wanted it, Aslan," he said guiltily, his face coloring. "I _enjoyed_ it – I delighted in taking life – in ruthlessly delivering death, to others as well as to Edmund. Should I not be punished even so, for these misdeeds of my heart and mind?"

The Great Lion flicked his ears back and then forward again, but otherwise remained absolutely still. "You have done well," he said, "To admit wrongdoing takes courage, and your trial came at a moment of great physical pain and weakness. But have you not already repented? What is your fear and trembling but a loathing for that which you felt and desired? Again I say to you, peace. This have I forgiven."

Amazement and sweet relief flooded over him, and the High King spent a few minutes trying to digest the Lion's words before he straightened. "Who is she?" he asked, "And what has she done?"

Shaking his mane, Aslan stood without making an immediate reply and began to walk down the narrow stretch of sand. The young man climbed unsteadily to his feet and followed after, realizing that this dreamscape was very like the place where he had first made landfall on Murano. Was he dreaming? He fixed his gaze on the sedate pace of the Lion's walk, the rippling of powerful muscle beneath the golden coat, the splintering of the dim, diffuse light from his mane. No, this was no dream, and it was no vision such as Lady Rua had shown him. Aslan was _real_.

They proceeded in silence. Peter was content to wait – already he felt refreshed by Aslan's presence, and he was happy just being with the Great Lion.

"The ancient one who calls herself Lady Rua is well known to me," the Lion began eventually, "as is her passion for slaughter and destruction. She has indulged her craving for such things to the end where her mind has become unhinged, and I placed her on this island in the hope that a respite from her activities would bring her healing."

The High King clenched his jaw, the madness in Rua's eyes coming unbidden to his memory. "It has not," he said quietly.

Aslan glanced at him. "No," he replied. "It has not. For she has no desire to restrain her appetites and thus fights against me."

"So that is the reason the villagers cannot leave," Peter said, "She tried to break free – and trapped them as well as herself."

"Yes," the Lion said, and the young man took a deep breath.

"You know she seeks to claim me for her own," he said.

"Yes," Aslan said again. He stopped walking and turned to face Peter, sitting with a big cat's fluid grace and wrapping his tail around his legs.

"Then what must I do?" the king asked, falling to his knees and spreading out his hands, "I will not join her, Aslan, not of my own volition. She herself has shown me that the consequences would be dreadful beyond imagining. And I wish to free those under her heel. They are a people in distress – _my_ people. I can do nothing less. Please, what must I do?"

The Great Lion paused, and his expression became very grave. "Peter, High King over all kings in Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands, and Lord of Cair Paravel," he said, "Do you love me?"

Peter answered immediately, conviction firm in his voice. "Yes, Aslan, I love you."

"Then you must be prepared to follow me."

"I am," the young man replied, "and I will. Wherever you ask."

The Lion made a rumbling noise low in his chest, and his golden eyes deepened. Peter bowed his head, sensing that Aslan was not yet finished.

"Sir Peter Wolfsbane, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion," Aslan said, "Do you love me?"

"Yes, Aslan," Peter said softly, still certain of his reply, but confused about the repetition of the question. "I love you."

"Then you must be prepared to lose yourself."

"I am," he said, slower this time. "I will be."

This time the Great Lion almost smiled, and the rumbling turned to something very akin a purr. "Peter Pevensie, Son of Adam," he said, very gently and very patiently, "Do you love me?"

For a long, long moment, Lion and king looked into one another's eyes. "Yes, Aslan," he whispered at length, "You **_know_ **I love you."

"Then you must be prepared to give your all."

The High King swallowed. "Then I will do so," he said, although his face had gone pale. "If you ask it of me."

Aslan bent forward and breathed over him, and inhaling deeply of the wonderful scent, Peter felt his blossoming fear calm and his burgeoning sorrow abate. Warmth shivered its way through his body, and marvelously, the throbbing cold of the tattoo on his right arm dissipated entirely. "Be strengthened, my son. I am with you."

Peter smiled faintly. "'Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die'?" he questioned, and then the smile disappeared and he was silent for another heartbeat. _"Am _I to die?" he asked, finding that he very much wanted to live; thinking fleetingly of Susan, Edmund, and Lucy; steeling his heart; resolving to be obedient.

The Lion said nothing and merely looked at him. "It is given that all things must face death," he said, and Peter knew not to press any further.

"Aslan," the young man hesitated. "You know I am still wounded. Is there a spell – an incantation – a working of magic that will defeat her and break her hold? I cannot fight her." He exhaled, slightly frustrated. "I _hate _this weakness."

This time the Great Lion did chuckle, little rolling grumbles of thunder. "Son of Adam," he said, "In your weakness you are made strong. Do not forget you are my representative here in this world. You reign as _my_ king, _my_ knight, **_my_** champion. Do you not exercise my authority, day in and day out? What you order bound is so; when you say come, they come; when you say go, they go."

His brow furrowed, the king was thoroughly flummoxed. "I don't understand," he said.

Aslan fluffed his whiskers in amusement. "Ah, Peter, my dear son," he said, and the complete, absolute love in his voice and in his beautiful, terrifying eyes made the High King laugh through sudden tears. "It is quite simple, after all. Tell her 'no'."

Peter opened and shut his mouth several times before he managed to put together a coherent thought in reply, stunned at the obvious answer. The Lion chuckled again and tenderly touched his tongue to the young man's forehead. "You have much to do on the morrow, and dawn will break soon," he said, "Sleep now, Peter High King. Rest quietly, peacefully, and without dreams."

And Peter did.


	26. Interlude Beluosum

_Interlude - Beluosum_

Stinging moisture ran into Edmund's eyes as he fought, dagger and sword flashing in the moonlight. His forearm throbbed where one of the monsters had battered aside his guard and bitten him, making his grip slippery with blood; deep scratches scored his right thigh through a rent in his armor. Carrack and Alpin flanked him, ferocious growls rumbling from their chests in answer to their enemies as they rent flesh and cracked bone; the big cats howled and scratched and clawed and bit fiercely just behind him. The queens' bows were singing. Lucy was shouting between each shot, shrill, staccato challenges; Susan remained tall and resolute, her fingers a tireless blur of motion, her face set and pale as marble.

In the midst of the chaos, the snarls, the blood, the smell, the sweat, the effort, Edmund happened to glance up and nearly dropped his weapons in shock. The castle towering above them was whole – not solid, not real – but whole, a shadow of what might be – was, perhaps? There on the battlements a woman stood leaning against a mighty spear, hungrily watching their labor. How he knew what she was he could not say, but his heart froze with sudden fear and his hands paused, stilled. Alpin, seeing the near-fatal distraction, leapt forward and saved him, tearing out the throat of the beast seeking to take his young king's life.

And the three sovereigns and their loyal subjects fought onward as a faint wash of pearlescent light blanketed the eastern sky. Dawn was breaking.


	27. Eye of the Abyss

**AN:** Many, many thanks to all of you for being so patient with me and for sticking with the story and leaving such encouraging and helpful reviews! I really couldn't do it without y'all (well, I probably _could_, but why would I want to do so?)! Sorry it's a shorter one, but we're almost to the top of the mountain here; the end of _our _quest is in sight, and it's the calm before the storm. Heh.  
Again, Shafelm belongs to elecktrum; the name Lion Chapel also. Merci beaucoup for the loan. :o)  
Happy Thanksgiving!

* * *

_My decision cannot be put off again  
I see the right choice  
But my heart is filled with dread  
It all seems backwards in my head_

_Sometimes I wonder why it's this way  
When it's done the burden is gone  
This discomfort will be taken away  
As soon as it's over, it's over for me_

_I know it seems too wrong to be right  
This way is so much harder to fight  
But in the end I know it is true  
This way is better, better for you  
+ Better For You_ by Kutless

**XXI. Eye of the Abyss**

When Peter slowly opened his eyes, the colors of his surroundings all swam together and swirled dizzyingly for a moment before gradually reverting to recognizable shapes and objects. He realized that he lay on his side atop the fine bed, his knees drawn up towards his chest and his hand supporting his head beneath the down pillow. It was entirely too comfortable, and he wished rather wistfully that he could stay there.

"Come on, Peter," he mumbled to himself, "Can't spend the whole day abed. Shift yourself - there's work to be done."

He did not move, however, and stayed curled up in the soft bedclothes for several long minutes, his gaze fastened on the open window and the patch of creamy morning sky visible there. The sun had risen, for he could see streaks of gold mixed with the blue, and the clouds were tinged with pink. Dawn had come.

Eventually, hardening his will, Peter uncoiled and sat up, rubbing the frowziness from his face and yawning mightily. Though he was refreshed by what had been a peaceful night just as Aslan had promised, the further awake he became, the more he felt a light pressure running along the back of his neck and shoulders. A subtle, vibrating tension pulled his muscles taut and lay heavily in the air, sibilant whispers of what was to come.

Ignoring this as best he could, he stood and stretched, yawning again, pulling his rumpled tunic down, re-belting the sword, combing his fingers through his untidy hair, scratching at his scruffy beard, wishing he'd left some water in the pitcher – he went through the motions, keenly aware of each movement. He had had plenty of practice in carrying on as normal under the strangest of circumstances, but here the cloud hanging low over his head cast an unnatural pall over his actions.

Having gone through what paltry routine he could manage, the High King finally knelt on the crimson rug with his hands on his knees as though he were in the Lion Chapel itself. He inhaled slowly and blew out an equally measured breath. How did one prepare for one's demise? If he followed Aslan's advice to refuse Lady Rua her heart's desire, he was under no illusions regarding the outcome. Payment for such rejection would be death; he had no question in his mind. Very well. So be it.

But what would come after? Would she then languish on the island, waiting for another to ensnare and convince to do her bidding? Keeping the villagers beneath her thumb all the while? Peter compressed his lips and touched the bedraggled cornhusk doll in his belt. This outcome must be avoided at all costs. She must be neutralized as a threat; even latent – trapped as she was – she was extremely dangerous.

He could not allow her to remain thus, playing deadly siren to the next unfortunate knight to fall into her hands. Who would it be? …_Emroth, Peridan, Ariad… …Edmund_… He clenched his jaw and felt a twinge of nausea. _Never_. But what could he actually do? Aslan had not given specific direction. Or had he?

Peter frowned. Something was niggling at the back of his mind, something the Great Lion had said, something he should be seeing. What was it? He felt frustration building and forced it away. Anxiety would do him no good. He must proceed and trust that the thought would come in due time. Aslan would not fail him; this he knew.

So, now to business. This should not be difficult - after all, he had faced his mortality many times on countless battlefields, in myriad quests, and even in the occasional friendly tournament. Perhaps it would be best to follow the same protocol he used to calm and fortify his spirit on those occasions. Yes. Repeating the traditional Litany of Aslan would be a very good place to start.

"Mighty Aslan, Great Lion, protector and defender, Highest of all High Kings, I beseech thee now and always, hear me, have mercy upon me," he began, his throat constricting slightly with emotion, "Lord Aslan, son of Emperor over the Sea, my wisdom, my help, my comfort, I beseech thee now and always, hear me, shower your grace upon me…"

And he continued on through the Litany, the certainty behind the words anchored the requests and brought him reassurance and comfort. "With pity behold the sorrows of my heart,_"_ he said at last.

_"Mercifully forgive the sins of thy people."_

Peter paused, startled, his head snapping up and his blue eyes wide and astonished. Was that…it sounded awfully like…could it be…_ Edmund_? How? He waited, but nothing more was said. A trick of his ears, most likely: his imagination bringing to life that which he desperately longed to hear one last time. He was no fool – he knew what elaborate games one could play with oneself, especially when poised at the edge of eternity. Bowing, he continued with the next phrase. "Favorably with mercy hear my prayers."

"_O Great Lion, have mercy upon us."_

The answer came again. To make matters even more bewilderingly confused, not only was his brother giving the customary responses, the High King now also heard his fair sisters the queens, as well. Susan's rich alto and Lucy's clear soprano had joined the younger king's firm baritone. Hardly daring to hope, Peter went on. "Both now and ever vouchsafe to hear us."

_"Graciously hear us, lord."_

"Aslan, let thy mercy be showed upon us and let thy will be done."

Here he hesitated slightly and then plunged into the concluding affirmation, his beloved brother and sisters' voices uniting with his own and echoing in his ears, in his mind, in his heart.

_"As we do put our trust in thee."_

* * *

For several heartbeats, the only sound was their harsh breathing. Amazed and heartened, Edmund remained on one knee, his fingers tightly wound together about Shafelm's grip, his knuckles whitened. He could hear his sisters beside him, and the tiny, muffled hitches coming from his left told him Lucy was weeping. He cast no blame – simply hearing Peter's voice had partially dissolved the hard knot of worry he bore and brought tears of relief to his own eyes. 

Peter was _here_! He was close by, and evidently in well enough shape to pray through the Litany. Small mercies, indeed. Maybe Edmund wouldn't nearly break his back this time hurriedly carrying the heavy, awkward sack of meal that was his brother to safety. Ah, he could but dream. A small smirk pulled briefly at the corners of his mouth, and he finally stirred, gaining his feet and sheathing Shafelm with a clarion ring of steel.

"Sisters," he said, "Queens of Narnia. Shall we go up and accomplish our quest?"

Lucy raised her head and stood, purposefully stringing her bow and nocking an arrow to the string. Her deep blue eyes were hard, and her face was set with determination. "Even so, brother," she replied, "Let us do. With Aslan's might behind us, who or what is able to stand against us?" She waved a slender hand to indicate the monsters' heaped corpses behind them and drew agreeing growls from Carrack and Alpin. The big cats hissed.

Edmund looked next to Susan, who remained on one knee, balancing her yew bow on its point before her, her expression shadowed. Her gaze was fixed on the castle ruins above them, and she gave no sign that she had heard him speak.

"Susan?" he tried again, small flicker of unease igniting in the pit of his stomach. "What say you?"

She stood then, wearily, and as she strung her bow, they could see her hands trembled. "I go with you," she said, facing them, "But I entreat you, consorts, to follow my lead. I believe my eyes are beginning to see clearly at last. Will you do this?"

"Yes," the youngest queen responded without hesitation.

"Yes," the young king replied also, fighting down a slight spike of annoyance. What did it matter who led? His sister was more than capable.

"Then let us begin," the eldest queen said, "For it seems to me our brother prays as one who goes to his death."

Unease fanned to fear and burst into flame.

* * *

Peter wrestled bittersweet sorrow under control, glad to have heard his brother and sisters' voices one last time, and yet grieved beyond words at parting from them. 

_"Promise me you'll look after the others?"_

The question drifted quietly, out of a past too hazy, really, to remember – a woman's voice he almost recognized. The memory vanished like smoke as he tried to seize upon it, and after searching for a bit, he decided it mattered little who had asked it of him. Oddly, he clearly recalled giving his solemn pledge in answer; for it was one he fiercely held close to his heart and fought, suffered, and bled to keep sacrosanct.

_"Good man..." __  
_

Lion's mane, was he voluntarily about to turn his back on his crown and his duties? Abandon his responsibility not only to the land of Narnia and its creatures, but to his family as well?

"It must be done," the High King whispered to himself, clenching his fists against his knees, "To keep all I love out of her reach – to keep my people and my family safe. This is my path, and I walk it willingly. My doom, and I accept it without qualm."

His voice broke, and he took a shallow, shuddering breath. "Aslan, you have restored me – keep me ever in your mighty paws. Help me bear it, please. Help me bear it _well_."

There followed a long moment of silence. Peter found he no longer felt anxious or troubled. Slightly nervous, yes – wishing he did not have to walk this path, yes, but his heart was strangely at peace. He was ardently grateful for this small blessing.

_"My champion…"_

The call wound sinuously 'round him, melodious and oh, so enticing – even still. Even now.

Peter stiffened. At last. The hour had struck. His battle cry, ever defiant and strong, rang through his mind.

_For Narnia…_

A fragrantly perfumed breath caressed his ear. _"The night has passed; the dawn has come."_

He stood, turned.

_For Narnia…_

A delicate laugh._ "Come, sir knight…come, follow me."_

He opened the door, descended the stairs.

_For Narnia…_

_And for Aslan…_


	28. Loyal Knight and True

**AN:** Shafelm and Blue River steel (see _Into the West_, chapters 29-34) belong to elecktrum. Many, many thanks to her for the invaluable help. (bows) You're amazing!_  
_

* * *

_Lying, robed in snowy white  
That loosely flew to left and right -  
The leaves upon her falling light -  
Thro' the noises of the night,  
She floated down to Camelot:  
And as the boat-head wound along  
The willowy hills and fields among,  
They heard her singing her last song,  
The Lady of Shalott._  
+ _The Lady of Shalott_, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, lines 136-44

**XXII. Loyal Knight and True**

It looked to be a beautiful day. The sky was clear and nearly cloudless, and the rapidly rising sun touched the flowers, the trees, and the great stone walls with pure, translucent gold. Peter paused at the foot of the tower steps and took a deep breath of the crisp morning air, his lungs burning a bit from the chill. He thought briefly of the many other times he had stepped out in very similar weather, embarking on much more pleasant pursuits. Well, if he wasn't to die of old age in his bed as he had hoped, at least the sun would be shining.

The crows were waiting for him, gathered around as he walked slowly through the courtyard, their beady black gazes following his movement. The deadly silence was broken only by the occasional bird shifting on a branch or ruffling its feathers, and otherwise all was unnaturally still and quiet. "Like the proverbial calm before the storm," thought Peter, nerves taking further root in his stomach and twisting unsettlingly. He was thankful to be afflicted only with this discomfort and a slight case of the shakes, though; Edmund would have been over in a corner throwing up the entire contents of his stomach and then some. The High King smiled a bit as he reached the Lady's tower door. Even so, no one was steadier – or deadlier – in a fight than his younger brother. How he would miss him and his sisters.

As he entered the tower's foyer and crossed the stone flagging to the staircase, the sensation of hundreds of tiny eyes boring into his back gave way to a warm watchfulness. The young man inhaled of spicily perfumed, damp air, tasting the sickly sweet undertones of rotting putrescence and feeling ravening nausea sink its claws deeper into his belly. Each step seemed to take an eternity, and yet in no time at all, he stood at the entrance to Rua's chambers. _Aslan_, he prayed,_ in this, my hour of need, be with me. May I acquit myself as a true knight of your order and a king of your realm._

Peter was just about to raise his hand and give the carved door a polite rap with his knuckles when it swung noiselessly open. He berated himself for jumping, realizing he should have expected such a display, and waited on the threshold.

Lady Rua stood across the room, facing the huge mirror to which he had given only a cursory glance the day before. She said nothing and did not move or give any indication that she had heard him arrive, although he knew very well this was a sham and clenched his jaw in annoyance. If she wanted to play games, then he would oblige. In truth, he must play false, for if she saw he intended to refuse her, he suspected immediate judgment would fall swiftly upon him.

Folding his arms, Peter settled in to be patient and tried to ignore the not-so-subtle twinges of longing twisting their way through him. On this morning, Rua's hair was loosed from its braid and fell in an untamed, bloody waterfall past her waist, and she wore a grey, sideless surcoat over a white underdress that allowed a glimpse of tantalizing curves. _You deny yourself refreshment and much pleasure in the meantime…_ He shifted uncomfortably and forced his gaze elsewhere.

Though he knew some – if not all – of his desire was the product of her enchantments, Rua's beauty was to his eyes perhaps the greatest he had ever seen, even above his sister the Queen Susan. The High King shook himself slightly and bit his tongue hard, welcoming the pain and the coppery taste of blood. Lion's mane, what was he thinking? Get _on _with it, Pevensie, before you lose your nerve and then your honor.

He cleared his throat. "My lady," he said in what he hoped was the tone of a man completely ensnared. "I have come."

Lady Rua turned from her mirror with a whirl of silk, and her smile was radiant. "Greetings," she said, coming to him and offering her hand, which he took and kissed as propriety demanded. "Did you pass an agreeable night?"

Peter couldn't help himself – a pure, genuine grin crossed his face for a moment as he thought of the Lion. "Yes," he said, "I did indeed."

"I am pleased," she replied, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, and his happiness dissipated instantly. Something odd gleamed in her gaze, an elation that set his teeth on edge. "Your majesty."

* * *

"Have you glimpsed anything more, anything at all?" Susan asked Edmund quietly as the three sovereigns, the wolves, and big cats made their way down the grassy sward, past the great, grey willows towards the dilapidated footbridge, weapons out and ready in hand.

"No," her brother responded, "The vision last night lasted but a moment, and we were sorely distracted with other matters." He smiled grimly. "I must say, though, even with only a brief glimpse, I was thoroughly impressed."

The eldest queen tightened her lips. Her dark eyes returned to the ruins and ranged up, up, as though she was looking higher than the piles of cracked and crumbled stone. "_She_ was there," Susan whispered, and the young king nodded silently. "She _is _there. Laughing at our feebleness."

Edmund tightened his grip on Shafelm, a terrible fury swallowing his fear and unease. "She will find her laughter hollow and her mirth false," he said menacingly, baring his teeth in a wolfish grimace, "and if she has harmed our brother beyond that which was already done to him, may Aslan alone have mercy on her soul."

Carrack growled, turning his massive head to glance up at them. "Well said, majesty; we are agreed," he said. "Stay here; Alpin and I will make sure the bridge is safe."

"Aren't you a little heavy for such delicate work?" asked Quaxo, twitching his ears. Alpin snorted angrily in his direction, but went with Carrack to carefully sniff and test the strength of the bridge.

Susan frowned in disapproval. "This is not the time for such things," she said sharply, "and we will cast you from our guard if you continue in your foolishness. Are we understood?"

The jaguar ducked, hunching his shoulders, and laid his ears back, embarrassed and shamed. "I apologize, your highness," he said, "It will not happen again."

"Do not promise what cannot be kept," the queen said, "but we ask you to refrain from deliberate provocation."

"Yes, majesty," he said, twitching his tail.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence had passed, the wolves called back the news that the bridge was indeed safe for passage. Lucy made as if to start forward, but Edmund stopped her with a word. "No, Lu. Let me go first." She huffed slightly, her impatience clear, but did as he asked, following behind with Susan as they crossed the bridge cautiously and began the climb up to the castle ruins.

Suddenly the young king jerked and stumbled backwards with a startled exclamation, losing his balance and falling to the ground in a jangling crash of armor. "Ow!" he said, surprised, gingerly feeling his nose. The wolves and big cats fanned out to either side of him but went no further, their heads up and noses extended, sniffing.

"Edmund!" Lucy cried, sinking to her knees beside her brother and gently taking his hands from his face. "Gracious, it doesn't look bad – you're not even bleeding."

Her brother gave her a dark look. "Well, it hurts like the devil," he said, causing the youngest queen to 'tsk' disapprovingly at his language.

"What happened?" she asked, looking back up towards the ruins. "Why did you fall?"

"I ran into a wall," he said simply as Lucy gave him a hand up. "Fool that I am; thinking to walk straight inside with no impediments. I should have known it wouldn't be so easy. Do you see anything, Su?"

Their older sister went to stand beside the royal guards and tentatively placed one hand flat against thin air. "No, brother, I do not," she replied. "Yet I can feel it, as solid as the walls of the Cair."

Carrack and Alpin separated and began to trot along the invisible boundary, circling the ruins. If Peter had not been in such grave danger, Lucy would have found the whole situation rather humorous, but as it was, she felt only angry disappointment when the two great wolves came back around, shaking their heads.

"There is no breach in this barrier, your majesty," Alpin growled, "It encloses the castle completely."

Edmund narrowed his brown eyes to slits and compressed his lips into a thin line. Lucy could practically see the smoke coming from his ears; she knew his mind was racing, furiously trying out plans – considering all angles, every detail – and discarding them just as quickly, forming more, thinking, thinking. A frisson of awe and admiration shivered its way down her back. This was the man Narnia's enemies feared, the cunning, implacable warrior who served as protector, defender, and shield, absolutely inexorable in wrath; undaunted by obstacles; unshakable in pursuit of justice.

"I wonder," he said slowly, thoughtfully, and then carefully drew his Blue River dagger. "Similar steel shattered spells for Peter, lo, these many years ago," he continued with the ghost of a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. "Perhaps it will do the same for me. Sisters, cousins – be ware."

He gently kissed the flat of the blade. "In the name of Aslan," he said and drove the dagger forward above his head, an overhand strike with his full strength behind it.

There was a sharp, cracking _'snap'_, a palpable, stinging shock as enchantments were broken, their loose ends whiplashing with the lethal speed of parting rope. The air electrified, and the earth trembled. Lucy felt a painful tingle run through her body, and her fingers prickled where they gripped her bow. She heard Susan gasp and huffs of astonishment come from the royal guard.

Only Edmund seemed unsurprised and unmoved, and he gripped the dagger with both hands where it seemingly was embedded in nothingness. With great effort, the muscles on his arms and neck standing out in sinewy cords, he drew it down through the air as though he were pulling it through deep water. Almost as if a heavy curtain was being drawn away, with a whispering, pouring rush colors blossomed, shapes formed, and where before there had been a pile of looming grey stone, there stood a towering grey castle.

"Oh, Aslan," Lucy whispered, stunned into immobility, her blue eyes wide.

"Is this the stuff of your visions, sister?" the young king asked Susan, stepping back, triumphant.

The eldest queen shook her head in assent, her face pale. "Yes, brother," she said, "It is indeed."

Edmund smiled, deadly, and his eyes were flat. "His majesty awaits our royal pleasure. Come, sister queens, let us reclaim our High King."

Susan nodded, blowing out a short breath, rolling her shoulders and loosening her arms and hands, settling herself. Lucy bounced up on the balls of her feet, feeling adrenaline beginning its potent rush through her system, imbuing her with reckless abandon and ferocious courage. The big cats flattened their ears and hissed, unsheathing their knife-edged claws, lashing their flanks with their tails.

Satisfied with their readiness, Edmund threw his head back and howled, a long, shuddering note that rose in pitch - savage, and merciless. Carrack and Alpin lifted their muzzles and joined him, the eerie sound of their voices announcing their arrival and promise of swift vengeance. And then without further hesitation, they began to run.


	29. The Agony and the Ecstasy

**AN:** Shafelm belongs to elecktrum, as well as, once again, many, many thanks for the advice and help on this chappie. Much appreciated! (bows again)

* * *

_Heard a carol, mournful, holy,  
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,  
Till her blood was frozen slowly,  
And her eyes were darkened wholly,  
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.  
For ere she reach'd upon the tide  
The first house by the water-side,  
Singing in her song she died,  
The Lady of Shalott._

_+ The Lady of Shalott_, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, lines 145-53

**XXIII. The Agony and the Ecstasy**

It was only his years of experience in the negotiating room, on the battlefield, and even in chess games with Edmund that saved Peter from reeling with shock at this new development. "I beg your pardon, lady?" he asked, forcing his tone to stay even.

"How very rude of you, my champion, to keep from me the nature of your true self!" Lady Rua said, her red lips forming a pretty, pouting moué. "Not only are you a mighty warrior, but a king as well! To think I was so fortunate to be given such a knight, such a champion, for my service."

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but she raised a finger in warning. "Nay, do not seek to deny it, sir," she said and gestured to the mirror. "I have seen it." She looked back to him and stepped closer, clasping her hands together like a small child with an exceptionally large pile of Christmas gifts. "And it is very good."

Rua smiled, the satisfied look of a cat just cornering its favorite meal. Her moss-colored eyes glowed with fierce triumph and an eager, all-consuming lust. "You must take me there, to your kingdom." She laughed, a little amused chuckle that made Peter shiver. "Perhaps we might use my mirror to open the door, to allow us through and to take us there. It will, you know. A lovely thing, my mirror."

She spun in a delighted pirouette, her skirts swirling, her arms extended. "You will make me your queen, strengthen our rule, and then we will begin our conquest, you and I. Ah! It will be _everything_ I showed you and more." She paused and faced him, reaching out to touch him, her hands open and grasping, pleading. "Are you ready now, sir knight? Will you swear your oath?"

Stunned, the High King looked from the Lady to the mirror to the window as his mind began to process what she had said. A king… She knew he was a king… A king…

_Do not forget you are my representative here in this world._

Aslan's words rang suddenly through his memory.

She had seen him, sovereign in his own land? In her mirror? A king…

_…where you say come, they come…_

A portal? The mirror served as a doorway as well as a scrying tool?

_…where you say go, they go…_

"Is that the answer?" Peter thought with a burst of hope and a sliver of doubt. "Am _I_ enough, Aslan?"

_Do you not exercise my authority, day in and day out? _ _You reign as my king, my knight, **my** champion. _

At last, with a startling flash of clarity, he understood what he had to do. He did not quite see the particulars, but he trusted the end result would be as promised. Aslan was right. The solution _was_ simple.

It was time to end this.

Peter drew himself up, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, and took a deep breath. He said nothing for a moment, the words held in thrall on the tip of his tongue, knowing that opening his mouth and giving them voice would be death, but also knowing without doubt it had to be done. "Aslan, Great Lion, be with me now," he thought, realizing what was to come would be painful beyond anything he had ever experienced. "Give me strength."

Just as he began to speak, an unexpected deep tremor ran through the castle – a humming vibration he felt through the rich carpet beneath his feet. A throbbing note sounded, and the walls trembled again, dust and crushed stone skittering free and whispering to the floor. The fine hairs along his arms and neck pricked and stood on end, and he wondered what had happened now. He was growing very weary of these new surprises.

Rua stilled completely, her jubilation swiftly shifting into a stunned horror. Her face drained of all color, and her lips parted in shock. She stepped immediately to the tower window and, seeing what lay below, grasped at the stone sill as if all her strength had fled. "No!" she hissed, unbelief and alarm heavy in her tone, "How can this be? _How can this be_?" The granite cracked beneath her fingers.

The young man very much wanted to know what had frightened her so, and he was about to go stand beside her when a voice suddenly lifted in a wild, piercing, undulating call. It held for a heartbeat – two – three – and was joined by the frightening howls of wolves, a sound that struck fear in the hearts of the doughtiest men, and for a moment, for a glimmering instant, Peter almost began to hope.

Then the Lady swung about, her face working, forcing the terror away. "Swear your oath to me now, Sir Peter, quickly," she said, her panic still evident in spite of her attempts to hide it. "Allow me to join you fully. We are under attack, and only together can we defeat this new foe."

The High King inhaled sharply, flashes of smoke and blood and fire passing abruptly before his eyes. Ah. Indeed. She was clever and no mistake. How could this be anything but another trick? A last-ditch attempt to convert him to her service, to loose him on his own people, for ever changed – for ever kneel'd, a monster. Resolve hardened and turned to stone. _Never while I live_.

He allowed a small, tight smile to cross his lips as he drew the enchanted sword from its scabbard. "I have already sworn an oath, Lady," he said, and she blinked, starting, uncertain of his meaning.

"I serve the Great Lion, he who granted me my crown and his authority to rule wisely and justly over the land he created. It is by his name, Aslan, Highest of All High Kings and by his great Father, Emperor-over-Sea," his voice was strong and steady, "I consign you to that place he has prepared for you and cast you forth. You no longer have a place here in this world."

"What did you say?" she whispered hoarsely, unbelieving, threatening. "You refuse me? You…_banish_ me?"

"You are not welcome here," Peter said calmly, meeting her gaze directly and letting her see that he was not afraid. "Your chance has passed. You cannot stay."

"_What_?" she gasped again, gripping the edge of her loom. A red flush was returning to her features, creeping up her neck and painting her cheeks a crimson hue as her unbelief morphed into a dark fury. "But…the signs…my mirror…you were to bring _salvation_ to this island. I saw this; it was foretold!"

"Salvation, yes," the High King replied sternly, "but not for you. Now foul creature, by the Great Lion's will I command you, _get thee gone!_"

The Lady threw her head back and screamed, a banshee howl that shook the keep to its very foundations and sent savage spikes of cold fear stabbing down Peter's spine. He clenched his fists, tightening his grip on the sword, to keep his hands from shaking and watched as her very appearance writhed and changed, her slender fingers curved into claws, the nails elongating and dripping red, while her long hair coarsened and flattened, clinging to her skull, matted and snarled. The beautiful, soft, white skin of her face blistered, cracked, and melted, elongating into the visage of a snaggle-toothed hag, and her silk kirtle rotted and disintegrated into rags hanging off a body that no longer exuded temptation.

Long, ethereal tendrils erupted from the mirror's edges and the glass itself began to blaze as if white-hot, rippling with the growing vibration of the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Somewhere, something crashed down with the heavy rumble of masonry tearing itself apart. Rua shrieked again as the ghostly tendrils sinuously wound themselves around her waist, legs, and arms, and as she was slowly dragged towards the shivering mirror, she fixed her crazed red eyes on the High King.

"Pitiful mortal, how _dare_ you defy me?" she hissed, and thrusting out her shriveled hands, she spoke commandingly in the same lyrical tongue she had spoken earlier when casting her vision. "Your doom has come upon you; rue this day and your foolish choice! End now in agony, blood, and fire; die alone, miserable, and forsaken!"

There was a infinitesimal whisper through the air, a brief sensation of unraveling - Peter braced himself - and then one after the other after the other, a battery of sharp cracks reverberated through him as the injuries he had received from the giant's club manifested themselves in reality once again. Exquisite, marrow-deep agony blossomed through his chest and lanced down his arms and legs, and he cried out in a great voice, joining the Lady's shattering scream as she was dragged through the portal. There was a blinding flash of light and the keep shook again, harder this time.

The High King bit down on his lip so hard he tasted blood and took three weakened and stumbling steps to the now solid mirror, fighting hard to stay upright. He knew it wasn't at all his own strength keeping him on his feet, but he had no energy for thanks.

The pain had gone beyond words, beyond thought – reaching an intensity he hadn't known the human body could endure. He knew he must be screaming, but he could hear nothing except a roaring in his ears; he knew his sight remained, though colors ran together and spots danced madly before his eyes; he knew he could taste and smell, for his nostrils were filled with the reek of harsh copper, and the taste of gore lay heavy on his tongue. He was nearly weightless with excruciating anguish; his very soul was being torn from his body. Was this what it meant to die?

Not yet. Please, not _yet_…

He _had_ to finish this before his strength gave way - that, or the ceiling fell in on him, which was sounding more and more like a distinct possibility. Bringing the sword up, Peter rotated it backwards, cocking the blade back over his shoulder and bringing the pommel smashing down. The glass shattered, spider-webbing out from a deep, lengthwise crack, and he battered at it again, the strength in his second swing considerably diminished but no less effective. Tears running from his eyes, he tried once more but couldn't seem to make his arm move, and the sword slipped from nerveless, useless fingers to fall ringing against the stone before it slowly disintegrated and melted away.

_Let that be enough, for I am done…_

Peter's control finally gave out completely, and he could no longer stand. With a cracked moan, he buckled at the knees, sinking; his forehead hit the broken mirror as he pitched forward and crumpled in on himself; shards of glass lacerated his skin and painted his face in trickling crimson streaks. A suffocating sensation seized him, and he choked, unable to inhale, feeling a rush of wet warmth suddenly bubble from his mouth and pour down his chin and drip in a streaming rivulet onto the blue tunic. He could no longer even contemplate moving; a freezing, dirty-white fog swallowed his consciousness whole.

Dimly, he heard the castle coming down around him - stone cracking and falling, earth-shaking thunder, dry, deep grumbles that sounded almost like a lion's roar. Peter smiled at this as his vision grayed even further and his suffering became a far-off flutter, an annoyance, something to be endured for a moment, for soon it would be removed.

_Oh, Aslan, Great Lion, receive my spirit, for I have been faithful._

And then the world faded, the pain dropped away, and the High King of Narnia knew no more.


	30. Healing Sorrow

**AN: **Shafelm belongs to elecktrum, many thanks! Enjoy!

* * *

_Out upon the wharfs they came,  
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,  
And round the prow they read her name,  
The Lady of Shalott.  
Who is this? And what is here?  
And in the lighted palace near  
Died the sound of royal cheer;  
And they cross'd themselves for fear,  
All the knights at Camelot:  
+ The Lady of Shalott_, by Alfred Lord Tennyson, lines 159-67

**XXIV. Healing Sorrow **

"_Edmund!_" Susan screamed over the horrendous noise of the castle falling to pieces, "Edmund, you must go _now!_"

Edmund looked from his sister's ghastly face back to the devastation and swallowed hard, feeling lightheaded. Those _cries_… Had they come from _Peter?_ Oh, Aslan, _please, _no… "Get back down across the bridge!" he shouted furiously, "Lest you be crushed!"

Lucy broke forward, her face full of dread. "I'm coming with you!" she hollered, unwinding the cordial strap from around her chest.

"_No!_" the eldest queen exclaimed in a frightened voice, quickly grabbing her younger sister and jerking her to a halt. "I will _not_ lose all of you over this! I couldn't bear it! _Edmund_, there is no time to lose! Go, _go!_" Giving her a short, sharp nod, he passed his gaze over both of the young women and their guards, and then broke into a sprint, jumping almost to full speed from a standstill, his long legs eating up ground as he ran.

"_Wait!_" Lucy cried, and the young king turned his head to see her draw back her arm and throw the cordial, end over end, the flask sparkling multi-colored flame in the sunlight. Not breaking stride, Edmund reached, snagging the strap out of the air, and the cordial subsequently smashed against his armor with enough force he wondered for a frozen heartbeat if it had broken. When he saw the faceted diamond-glass remained whole, he thankfully slung the leather band over his shoulder and increased his pace.

One hand gripped Shafelm, holding it up, keeping it from tripping him; the other was fisted – his brown eyes blazed and his jaw was set firmly, teeth gritted. "Aslan, help me be in time, help me _find_ him, Aslan, please, please…" he prayed over and over again, his speed unflagging as he approached the castle.

A huge stone tumbled past with a rush of wind, shaking the ground, and Edmund fervently hoped there were no additional enchantments in place actually aiming the chunks of rock at him. Without slowing, he pounded up the short hill towards the castle gateway. Just as he passed through, the arch came crashing down on his heels, covering him with dust and splintering him with chips of stone and dirt.

A great, suffocating cloud went up, and Edmund could see nothing. Grit and sand coated his face and scritched in his teeth, nettling his eyes, abrading his skin. He coughed convulsively, faltering a bit as the ground continued to shake, hundreds of tons of granite impacting with explosive force.

"Peter, where are you?" he thought frantically, wishing for a sign of some sort, a flash of his brother's whereabouts, a mental cry for help – anything. "_Aslan! _Help me, please!"

_Edmund, Just King_. A voice he knew and loved even more than life itself whispered to him urgently, coming to him clearly through the cacophony of destruction. _Come, follow me_. _Hurry_.

The young man lifted his gaze to see…something…a large form, vague and indistinct through the dust, dashing away from him. He began to move in pursuit, one hand held before his eyes to shield them as best he could, hope thudding through him with every heartbeat. _I'm coming, brother mine_. _I'm on my way._

Edmund had no idea where he was going or what his surroundings were. He only knew he was moving, putting one foot in front of the other, following that blurry shape through a maze of deadly perils, through falling, crumbling rock and billowing dust. More than once he heard a whispering whistle and felt a breath of cold air brush against him, and he roughly pushed away the knowledge that he had narrowly escaped certain death. It made no difference to him now.

Suddenly, he ran up against a hard stone barrier and for the second time in less than an hour, bashed his nose against the unforgiving surface. Giving in and momentarily cursing a blue streak, he blindly explored, realizing with a jolt of excitement that what he had found was a doorway. He felt wildly for the opening and then ducked inside, immensely relieved by the abrupt change from howling chaos to dim, musty silence.

He spent a few precious seconds bent over his knees, hacking and spitting the worst of the dirt from his lungs. When he looked up, the young man saw a dim flash as the something – or as was more likely, someone – he had been following dashed around the curving bastion of a circular stairway.

The king sprang forward with a hiss, taking the unstable, cracking stairs two at a time. When he reached the landing, he battered aside the ornately carved door hanging half open and nearly off its hinges; the force of his desperate shove sent it flying. The room he entered had already suffered grievously. Half of the tower wall to his left had collapsed and opened onto the verdant sward below, while wreckage, huge blocks of stone, and jagged shards of glass littered the floor.

None of this mattered to Edmund, however, as he was already on his knees beside the pathetic, curled form of Narnia's High King, choking on copious, stinging tears. Praying he was not causing additional harm, but knowing he had no time, he turned Peter onto his back. Oh, Lion's Mane, he saw his brother in a bad way more often than he ever wanted, and each time, the bruises, wounds, and lacerations hurt as deeply as if he'd received them himself. This was the same and yet not, nearly identical, but with one crucial difference.

Filthy, starved, and bloodied, his brother was no longer breathing.

His own breath coming in panicked little gasps, Edmund unslung the cordial and unstopped the bottle, not even noticing the delicious scent. He was conscious only of the shaking beneath and around them and of the High King's stillness before him. Gently, he forced open his brother's mouth, his trembling fingers quickly coating with blood and slipping as he deftly poured several scarlet drops inside.

He could see no real visible change at first, and his heart nearly stopped with fear, grief strangled him, leaving him motionless. _Aslan_, he cried silently, despairing, nearly incoherent, _please don't take him from us yet, please let him live, what would we do _without_ him, we need him, Narnia needs him, Great Lion, please, please, as you love us, take _me_ instead…_

And then the sallowness of Peter's skin flushed almost imperceptibly with a rosy tint and the specter of a sigh issued from his lips. Relief bursting radiantly over him, Edmund exhaled at last.

_Thank you, oh, Aslan..._

It was time to leave this place.

"Very well, brother," he groused thickly, looping the cordial's strap around his neck and sliding his arms beneath the High King's shoulders and knees, lifting him with a grunt of effort. "It wouldn't be a true rescue without me lugging you to safety, dogged every step of the way with danger and hazards untold, would it?"

Peter, naturally, did not respond, but the younger king held him closer and spoke for him as he raced for the stairs. "No, Eddie, beloved, I don't suppose it would."

* * *

Lucy stood wrapped in Susan's arms, feeling her sister shiver, as the great grey keep tumbled down before them – the towers crumbled inward, pieces of battlements cracked and shattered, whole sections of wall sheered away and fell, rolling and skipping down the incline. The earth shook, and the noise deafened; clouds of roiling dust, dirt, and splintering stone billowed. 

How much longer? Was Peter even alive?

The queens and their guards had moved down to a safer position near the river but had not crossed over the bridge. They could not tear their eyes away from the destruction, as horrible as it was, as threatening as it was, even with the terror of what it meant. Moving restlessly beside them, the wolves keened low and soft, wanting to be guarding their lord instead of waiting to ascertain his fate. Lucy understood their pain, for it was her own.

How much longer? Would Edmund come back to them?

"Oh, Aslan," she whispered, tightening her arms around the eldest queen's waist. She thought that if they did not receive a sign of some sort, soon, she would go mad. Perhaps she _was_ mad already and this terrible circumstance lived only in her mind, born of malignant illness. No, no, _no_. _Peter, oh, Peter…_ _Edmund, _find_ him. Aslan help Edmund _find_ him._

How much longer? Every moment was agony.

Susan's lips were moving, though no sound came from them. Abruptly, she stiffened, her gaze sharpening, and Lucy straightened immediately, her heartbeat coming quicker and quicker, feeling almost as if it would burst from her chest in its panic. The wolves and big cats tensed, coiling up as though ready to spring, eyes gleaming.

Could it be? Was it possible?

The veil of poisonous-looking yellow dust swirled, churned, and then parted briefly, winging open on either side, puffing out around the tall, dark figure emerging. Lucy held her breath, her eyes straining to see, hoping against hope that he would be bearing a precious burden. _Damn_ this destruction – she couldn't make out any details. Susan was gripping her arm hard enough to pinch straight through the chain mail and padding. At last, finally, Edmund stepped out from the ruin onto the greensward, his face a hardened mask of fiercely controlled anguish and effort; the motionless body of the High King lay huddled against his brother's chest, cradled tenderly, firmly in his arms.

For an instant, a bare second, Lucy almost swore she saw a great golden flare behind the young king, a flash of tawny mane, a glimpse of fathomless, loving eyes. Then the rent closed with the horrendous sound of collapsing wall, and Edmund was running, stumbling, running, running to meet them. Susan gave a shuddering cry, and the youngest queen fought to remain standing, as her knees nearly buckled with relief. Carrack and Alpin charged forward, meeting the young man halfway and forming up in escort beside him, growling in their haste and excitement.

"I thought I told you to get across the river!" Edmund yelled breathlessly as he neared, "Peter will live! _Move!_"

His sisters obeyed now without question, the news that the High King still clung to life giving their feet wings. Preceded by Mistoffelees and Quaxo, they ran to the footbridge and crossed, with Edmund and the wolves just behind. Lucy had just enough presence of mind to see that somehow the landscape here on this opposite side had changed drastically, unbelievably, but then she was swinging around, her throat constricting painfully at the sight of her eldest brother, tears of joy at his recovery and heartbreak at his condition already streaming down her cheeks.

"He was dying when I found him," Edmund said shortly, sparing no words or feelings, carefully lowering Peter to the ground and straightening his limbs. "I gave him several drops of cordial – more than enough to heal his crushed ribs foremost and anything else internal, and…and that seemed to be enough." He shook his head, a savage, tremulous motion, before pulling the cordial's strap over his head and handing the flask to Lucy.

Susan knelt and took her brother's head in her lap, her face white as she beheld the blood. So much blood. Too much. "Are there any…external wounds?" she asked, as if dreading the answer.

"He began breathing again, praise Aslan, and that was all I cared to see," the youngest king replied, "I didn't notice anything else, but I had no time for a thorough examination."

Lucy swiftly slipped a small knife from its sheath in her boot and cut apart Peter's sodden tunic, exposing his torso. Crusted lacerations of various depths and lengths gave mute testament to recent violence, and huge bruises marked the damage wrought by the giant's club, but, oh, thank the Lion, his stomach remained whole – smooth and unbroken. All three sovereigns slumped with relief at seeing this, for though they had not spoken of it aloud, the terror of Susan's visions had gained an unshakable foothold in their minds and imaginations.

The eldest queen began to cry uncontrollably, bending low over her brother, her fallen tears tracking through the blood and grime on his still face. "I was so afraid," she wailed softly, her fingers threading through his snarled hair, "Oh, Peter, I was so afraid."

Silence fell, broken only by Susan's gasping sobs, until finally Edmund stirred. "Sister," he said lightly, placing his gloved hand on her shoulder, "Be at peace; weep no longer. Aslan has graciously given Peter back to us, and now we must see to his healing." She nodded, sniffing, and her younger sister wordlessly handed her the handkerchief she always kept in her belt-pouch.

Then Lucy uncorked the cordial, and the sunlight seemed just a bit brighter, the grass a bit greener, and they all felt refreshed and encouraged. She worked her way over the High King's body, curing the worst of his injuries, checking his arms and legs, while the eldest queen followed behind, wiping the blood and dirt from their brother's skin with the handkerchief. Edmund unbuckled the belt and helped them work off the ruined tunic.

"I certainly am curious as to what this is all about," he said, lifting up the scabbard and neatly catching a crackling, oddly twisted piece of cornhusk as it fell from the leather's embrace. "This looks like…a doll. Peter, what _have_ you been doing?"

The youngest queen put her ear against Peter's chest and, satisfied that his heart was beating normally and his breathing was steady, sat back on her boot heels with a sigh. "This is the best we are able to do here and now," she said, "We need to have some of the supplies brought in to finish – he needs to be washed and dressed in clean clothing, and we'll need to make up something bland for him to eat when he wakes."

"He won't like that," Edmund said with a knowing smirk, remembering full well how awful it was to regain consciousness feeling completely ravenous and be given something runny and tasteless instead of the desired platefuls of meat and potatoes. Oh, yes. Peter hated gruel with a passion.

For the first time, Susan allowed a small smile to tug at her lips. "No aiding and abetting, Ed, no matter how he wheedles and complains."

Her brother looked offended at the very idea. "Never, fair sister." He grinned unexpectedly, quirking dark eyebrows. "As I have suffered, so shall he."

The young man leaned down and placed a kiss on the eldest king's forehead. "Did you hear me? You have not escaped us so easily, brother mine, and for the gift of your return, I thank Aslan with every fiber of my being."

"Yes," Susan whispered, smoothing Peter's hair, "Thank Aslan indeed."

Lucy suddenly cleared her throat. "Su, Ed?" she asked, her voice entirely too casual.

Edmund unbent, nerves tightening, senses heightening, and met Susan's dark eyes. What now?

"We're no longer alone."


	31. Nothing Ventured

**AN:** Sorry for the wait - these next chapters were rather difficult. I know this one is quite a bit shorter, but hopefully still sweet. Or something. :o)  
Thanks again to elecktrum for the masterful beta-ing!  
Enjoy!

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**XXV. Nothing Ventured**

"Mumma, that's my doll," Muriel whispered, squirming a bit against Carvaca's tight hold, almost as if she was quite prepared to run straight to her knight, right past the enormous wolves and the huge, lithe, cat-like creatures sitting calmly and watching them all with unblinking golden eyes.

"Sssh, sweetheart," Carvaca replied, ignoring the angry looks her neighbors were giving her for making noise and possibly attracting more attention than they wanted, "You must wait. Be patient."

"But what's wrong with Sir Peter? Is he dead?" the little girl asked, worried, "What happened to him?"

Her mother paused a moment, a host of replies running through her mind. The knight certainly looked as though he had passed from this world, borne as he had been in the arms of the other stranger, nearly unrecognizable beneath blood and bruises, and now laid out as though they were preparing him for a wake. One of the women had wept over him, and the other two humans had allowed tears to fall freely, but they did not seem to be exhibiting despair or the utter sorrow Carvaca associated with mourning.

In fact, after a period in which the strangers had worked quietly over Sir Peter's body, they had even begun to laugh and smile at one another and look down on the knight with loving affection. Obviously, they knew him well and cared for him deeply. And they were people of considerable wealth and power, that she could see at a glance – their clothing and armor was beautiful – richly colored and elegantly worked. Most amazing and impossible of all, exquisite crowns glinted on each of their heads. Royalty, here? On this accursed island? Was this another trick? Or…something else entirely…

"I don't think he is dead, Muriel," she answered quietly, "I think he is just asleep. He looks as though he has been hurt."

"Fighting the fairy lady," the little girl huffed. "For us. And he kept my doll! Let me go, Mumma, I want to help."

"No, no," Carvaca said as softly as she could manage, irritation coloring her tone, "Sssssh! Don't you see those big animals? They have terrible teeth and claws that could cut you to ribbons. Hush, now!"

But it was too late. One of the women looked up and saw them, and her deep blue eyes went almost as wide as saucers. Muttering broke out amongst the villagers who had gathered there at the edge of the river, and they began to draw back almost as one, shrinking away. The young woman kept her eyes upon them and spoke, said something to her companions, and they too, looked up and around. Very slowly, they moved to a defensive screen around the knight's supine form, the man standing and drawing a long, slender dagger that shone in the sunlight. His face was hard as flint, and his gaze was piercing.

He too, spoke, though louder and directed at them. "Who comes thus?" It was a question that demanded an answer, asked in the voice of one unused to disobedience. The enormous wolves and their counterparts stood also, their stance stiff-legged, lips drawn back from long, wicked-looking fangs.

Devon growled a bit under his breath. "Well done, Muriel. You killed us all."

His wife tightened her lips, sudden anger coursing through her, and she stepped forward recklessly, pushing her way easily to the front of the crowd. Once there, only a few paces away from such sharp teeth, she became hyper aware of the child beside her. Her courage fled as swiftly as it arrived. For a wonder, Muriel stayed both quiet and still.

The stranger looked at her with dark, unfathomable eyes and waited. "Do you lack speech?" he asked softly, but with an undercurrent of ice and steel.

The first young woman watched her carefully, dispassionate, yet completely alert and aware. Carvaca was reminded strongly of Sir Peter – something in the blank slate of her manner, the neutrality of the face combined with razor sharp focus in the oh, so similar eyes. The one who knelt with the knight's head in her lap wore a very curious expression, as though she had not been at all surprised to see them there and was now caught somewhere between compassion and mistrust.

"No…no," Carvaca stammered, "But please, who are you? What is your business here?"

"We are of Narnia and have come merely to claim our own," the young man continued, still coiled like a viper about to strike, "Do you and the rest of these folk live in this place?"

"Yes," she answered haltingly. Narnia? Wasn't that the land of Endless Winter, governed by a powerful enchantress? She heard this new tidbit of information take hold in her neighbors behind her. "We do. Please, what has happened? How did you find us?" She paused, looking to the knight, hoping fervently he would wake and vouch for her, rescue her from her predicament. "Did Sir Peter succeed? Has…has the Lady…has she gone?"

This last question was asked so tremulously, Carvaca was amazed to see that it had actually been understood. A change came over the stranger, very slight, and he canted his head towards the beautiful, black-haired woman. "Su?" he asked, his attention never wavering from the villagers.

"Yes, Ed," she responded, "These are the spirits I saw."

"Alpin? Mistofelees?"

And the wolf on the left, the one with the wide chest and massive shoulders, opened his terrifying mouth and _answered_. "Yes, majesty," it said, in a gravelly, basso profundo growl that sent shockwaves through the group assembled there.

One of the cats purred, winking both eyes indolently, and added in a nasal, rippling voice, "The very same."

Carvaca hastily covered her open mouth with a trembling hand, and Muriel squeaked as her mother's hold constricted into a pinch. Spirits? _Talking_ _animals_? Heavens above, what was this? "Sorcery," she heard hissed from behind her, and the small crowd erupted in furious, petrified whispers and menacing murmurs – it stood to reason, _Narnia_ – witchcraft, more spells, more magic, more enchantments, sorcery, sorcery, _sorcery_…

The atmosphere darkened, teetering towards the edge of collapse into bloodshed. Carvaca had no doubt that if anyone made the slightest threatening move towards the strangers, they would be, as she had cautioned Muriel, torn to ribbons. They had all seen the fresh pile of bestial corpses beside the huge willows, and the very bearing of the three humans, not to mention their armor and weaponry, gave evidence of their capabilities. This, of course, left out entirely the several times larger than normal predators just inches away from her precious daughter. _Oh, please, someone, stop this madness…_

The young man shifted position and remained silent for what seemed an eternity, his eyes seemingly taking in every movement and gesture and whisper, evaluating, weighing, assessing. His companions were crouched, waiting for his signal, and the woman with the golden crown had gently moved the knight's head from her lap and taken up her great yew bow in preparation for whatever came next.

Her breath caught in her throat, Carvaca couldn't move, couldn't speak, and she suddenly had a very good idea how a small rabbit felt caught in the deadly, hypnotic gaze of a raptor. "Please," she managed finally, "Please, oh, please, we mean no harm."

"No?" he questioned, arching an eyebrow sardonically. One of the cats hissed ominously.

"No," she replied frantically, her fear making her shrill. "No," she repeated, shaking as she forced herself to slow down, to inhale, deeper. Muriel made small sounds of discomfort at the tightness with which her hand was held, but Carvaca ignored both her and the vicious, rumbling protests coming from her friends and neighbors.

"No. We do not. We are simple people who have suffered, cut off from the world here on this accursed island, trapped and without hope. We have never met your…kind before and are…frightened. Please."_ Quiet, you _fools she thought fiercely, willing her fellow villagers to cease their obstreperousness. _Don't you see the danger we're in?_

Lifting his chin, the stranger paused, and she could see him considering her words. With this small gesture, a portion of the noxious tension in the air drained away, and breathing became much easier. He made a hushed noise, a 'wisht' sound between his teeth, and the talking animals – who she realized must be a guard of some sort – sat once more, the cats curling their tails 'round their front legs. The young women relaxed as well, but remained standing with their bows balanced before them.

Carvaca staggered with the release, dropping Muriel's hand, who took advantage of her mother's weakness to slither behind her and immediately burrow into her skirts. "What have you done, you stupid woman?" came someone's accusing whisper – Reina, she thought, but in her dazed state, she didn't know for sure.

"Madam," the young man said, sheathing the dagger in a smooth, swift motion, "It appears we have much to say to one another."

A grim, tight smile pulling at his mouth, he spread his hands, palms out, and Carvaca's dizziness increased as she recognized the gesture. "Will you treat with me?"


	32. Hail Brother, Well Met

**AN:** Many thanks to elecktrum for her help - your patience and thoughtful critique is greatly appreciated!

* * *

**XXVI. Hail Brother, Well Met**

Slowly, with the heaviness of moving through a mixture of sand and fog, Peter became gradually aware he was looking up at the dark woven underside of a roof. "How extraordinarily odd," he thought to himself, "I never expected Aslan's country to look like this."

Blearily, hazily, he wondered if maybe he had been put in a special place to heal or had just plain taken a wrong turn. Perhaps Aslan would come soon and explain. He hoped so. How he wanted to see Aslan again.

He blinked, feeling wonderfully lazy and sleepy, warm and cozy, and this, at least, did seem right. The last thing he had known was crushing, unrelenting agony striated with the nauseating, pervasive taste of his own lifeblood. Waking this way, hale and whole, was a considerable improvement, as to be expected when one had died and gone to one's reward.

He blinked again, slower this time.

Died. He had died. He was _dead_.

Oh, sweet Lion.

Susan, Edmund, Lucy – oh, he had died and left them and abandoned Narnia, his country, his people, but he had had no choice, it was his duty, his doom, Aslan had asked it of him, and he had done it, for he _loved_ Aslan, _loved_ Narnia, loved – _oh_, Susan, Edmund, _Lucy_…

A blurred moan worked its way from a raw throat, and Peter twisted beneath rough linen, shocked at the tears flooding forth. One didn't cry in Aslan's country, did one?

There was a rustle of clothing nearby and the creak of wood, and then callused fingers gently touched his face, smoothed his hair. "Peter?" a male voice asked, a voice he knew, one he loved completely and deeply and had thought never to hear again. Edmund. Was Edmund here, too? His breath came faster, hitching – had something happened? Aslan said his brother lived, that the vision had been just that, a vision, and Aslan did not lie, so – if the younger man was here – was he, Peter, actually…dead?

"Peter, are you awake?" his brother asked, a tremor beneath the flippancy in his tone, "Or are you going to sleep for another straight day and leave us to do all the work, as usual?"

The High King turned his head from the wall and looked up into Edmund's deep brown eyes. For a few excruciating heartbeats, all he could see there was the heavy, fatigued sorrow exhibited by Rua's terrifying apparition; all he could remember was that intense spark and color draining instantly into the empty, accusing stare of the dead – a victim of willful, purposeful fratricide.

He gasped, a frantic, heaving inhalation, almost as if he couldn't draw enough breath into his lungs – _it wasn't real, he had been forgiven, Edmund lived, he lived, he _lived – and then shakily reached out and touched the younger man's face. He saw the weariness there, the worry and the fear, saw the dark shadow of beard on his brother's normally smooth cheeks, smelled the leather of his armor, the tobacco and sweat and blood, felt the tension in the hand gripping his, and he _knew_.

"Ed…Eddie?" he managed, the name slipping on his tongue and coming out somewhat garbled and mushed, a cracked whisper incapable of any substance.

"I'm here," Edmund responded gently, going very still, "I'm here, Peter."

Somehow, beyond all hope, he had been rescued and healed of his wounds and injuries. He was _alive_. Trust Edmund to be waiting at his bedside for him to awaken. How many times without number had they both done the same, one for the other?

Peter's breath faltered again in a hoarse, convulsive half-sob, and when an arm eased beneath his shoulders and carefully helped him to sit, he mustered all of his weakened strength and caught the younger king in a fierce embrace. "Edmund," he said haltingly, dragging oxygen into his lungs, pulling stubbornly at his next breath and finding tears instead. "Thank…Aslan, I…I…thought…never…thank Aslan…"

"Sssh, hush now," Edmund soothed quietly, calmly, although the High King felt moisture against his neck. The younger man shivered very slightly and hesitated, as though he was going to speak, paused, and then hesitated again.

"Is…is she gone, Peter?" the younger king whispered, dread curiosity ultimately winning out over caution. "We knew, somehow – Susan saw her; I saw her. Who was she?"

The eldest king shuddered, a chill racing through him in spite of his brother's warmth. Suffocation seized him, choking, binding. "She was…is…no longer…of this…world…" he responded slowly, struggling for every syllable.

Edmund was silent for another minute or two. "Peter," he began, "please, if…"

"I…know, Eddie, beloved," the High King interrupted, fighting desperately for purchase and sanity, "Not…now, not…yet. Soon."

He sensed the younger king's nod and tightened his hold as much as he was able, taking comfort from the security of Edmund's arms and the knowledge that by Aslan's grace, he was safe and well – at least for the moment.

After pressing a kiss to his brother's hair, Peter finally drew back and hiccupped, wiping the dampness from his face with a trembling hand. "How?" he asked, his breath coming easier at last, though his speech was still a little slurred from deep healing and long sleep. "How…did you find me?"

The younger king helped the High King lean against the wall and then settled himself back on the wooden stool beside the pallet. He bent forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "Aslan told us where to begin looking," he replied, "and Susan…" a pause, a quick glance, "Susan saw things – visions. They – well, they didn't prove terribly helpful in locating you, but they did serve as rather effective, ah, incentives to find you as quickly as we might."

Peter clenched his hands into fists, mangling handfuls of the rough blanket as he did so, fury blazing white-hot. He had seen and endured many horrors in his lifetime so that his cherished sisters would not. To hear Susan had been witness to such things – especially Rua's insidious machinations – made his blood boil.

"Be still, Peter," Edmund said, noticing the involuntary movement and the almost imperceptible tremor that shook his brother's frame, "She is recovering and in good health."

"She is with you?" the young man asked in some surprise, the query prompting a sudden chuckle.

"Lion's mane, do you think our sisters would let me come after you alone?" he retorted, fixing Peter with a look that was equal parts affection and incredulity. "Of course they're here; just not at the present moment. With your usual impeccable timing, my lord, you managed to wake in a moment of peace and quiet. In truth, not a quarter-hour ago this tiny room was overcrowded with anxious women, our fair queens among them." He huffed a bit. "Very nearly drove me mad with their incessant clucking and fretting."

Peter drew in a ragged breath, feeling it catch somewhere deep in his lungs before it eased, and crooked an eyebrow. "So you chased them out."

It was not a question. Their sisters had a decided tendency to hover when worried, and if there was one thing that grated on Edmund's nerves, it was excessive fussing. He could become an insufferable grouch if exposed to undue cosseting, regardless of whether or not he was the object of such affections.

When he received a small, satisfied smirk in response, the elder king sighed and gave it up. "I would assume you managed to employ that silver tongue of yours to good effect if the villagers let you ensconce me in one of their homes," he said instead, "if the island is where we remain."

Edmund nodded. "We do," he said, "It was touch and go there for a moment after I pulled you out of that collapsing castle – this makes at least five times now I've had to rescue your unworthy hide, I'll have you know – but thank Aslan, they saw reason at last." A wry smile twisted his mouth. "An interesting people."

The eldest king grimaced. "You speak truth."

Edmund smirked again, and Peter's heart clenched at the sight. "About the steadily mounting debt you owe me, or the charming villagers, brother mine? Tread carefully, now."

"Both-and," the High King said, grinning cheekily.

The young king rolled his eyes. "Well, it appears your scintillating wit wasn't damaged or lost somewhere along the way, more's the pity."

Peter scowled at him good-naturedly, and Edmund smiled insolently back. "I will bring our sisters and the others news of your return to the land of the living – they wished to know the moment you awoke," he said and rose. "Are you comfortable for the nonce?"

Cocking his head, the young man considered Edmund appraisingly. "To be quite honest, I'm starving," he said at last, "Please tell me you've a haunch of venison roasting somewhere close by. Please, I beg you."

His brother gave a low, rather ominous chuckle and went to the fireplace. Using a hook to pull the crane and its blackened pot into reach, he then reached for a battered trencher and scooped into it a few dipperfuls of something white and pasty. Turning, he came back to the bedside and bent down, presenting the dish to the High King with a triumphant, gleeful expression. "By Queen Lucy's orders," he said. "Your favorite and mine, Peter. Do you need assistance?"

"I am quite capable," Peter replied, glaring a little, "and do not wish to wear the stuff as well as eat it, thank you. Is this our sister's means of revenge upon me for her fright?"

"Not only our sister's revenge," Edmund said, plopping the trencher in his brother's lap and making for the door.

His elder brother picked up the worn, wooden spoon and stuck it in the gruel, where it stood straight up and down, held in place by the gloppy, overcooked meal. Edmund snorted with explosive hilarity at the High King's expression.

"This is cruelty to your king, Ed," Peter said sourly, shooting the younger king a poisonous look, which only made him snicker harder. "Unjustified, unwarranted brutality. And even worse, here I am, your only brother."

Edmund lifted the latch and looked back over his shoulder, the widest grin Peter had yet seen plastered across his face. "Exactly."

He shut the door just in time.


	33. Confess Triumph

**AN: **Well, here it is folks. The last full chapter (though not the last post) of _For Ever Kneel'd_. My deepest thanks to all of you who have stood with me and supported my stumbling efforts from the beginning to this end, for all of you who have left reviews, no matter how succinct, and for those of you (yes, you) who have offered excellent criticisms, too-kind comments, and superior beta-ing and have been so generous with your own stories. I am for ever in your debt. **  
**

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**XXVII. Confess Triumph**

_Silence._

_The stranger scanned the gathering of villagers. "Who here will stand with this woman?" he asked sternly, "I see many of you whispering and muttering and winking your eyes – do any besides this one-" he lifted a hand to indicate Carvaca, "-have the courage to step forward and voice these murmurings? Or is this an island of craven folk, those who hide behind one brave enough to speak?"_

_Ah, this struck a nerve. Carvaca could feel the indignation bristling in the air around her, and finally, she heard footsteps as someone moved to her side. "I stand with her," came Harriah's voice, quavering a bit with nerves, but clear nonetheless. _

"_I also," said Betsie, and her husband Beorn added his support, both of them coming forward. "We will treat with yeh, as ye've asked."_

"_As he asked," added Carvaca, nodding towards the still figure of the knight and fighting back another rush of deja vu. "He also spoke those words to us."_

_A smile flashed across the young man's face, so quickly that she wasn't sure it had actually seen it, and then his mouth drew down into a grim frown. "He was able to communicate with you?"_

_Carvaca mirrored his expression. "Yes," she replied, "Just as you do. What of it?"_

_The tall, black-haired woman gently cleared her throat, and all eyes swung to her as she pursed full lips for a moment before speaking. "This is not entirely out of the realm of possibility, Edmund," she said, and the stranger narrowed his eyes briefly at the revelation of his name. _

"_You must know, good people," she continued, addressing the assemblage, "When my consorts and I arrived here on this island, we were unaware of any inhabitants. This valley was empty – the castle, in ruins."_

"_What?" Carvaca gasped. "Empty?"_

"_How?" a new voice interjected, sharply. Reina. _

"_We know not," responded she of the golden crown, "but certain…members of our party were able to see your village and you – though you appeared as spirits to us. Diaphanous, as the air."_

"_Perhaps," interposed the younger woman, speaking for the first time, "Perhaps this lady you speak of – the one you dreamed, Su – laid spells on this place to make the villagers and their homes invisible except to those who had eyes to see. Did we not sense the enchantments here?"_

"_How then, did our lord speak to these folk?" asked the young man again, rather sharply, Carvaca thought and then his words caught up with her. Our lord? Did he mean Sir Peter?_

"_Mayhap Peter was of both worlds," said the older one, her face quietly thoughtful, "He was real to them, just as he is real to us. This is why we found his ship's rations – they exist in this reality, just as they – and he – existed to these people then." _

_She nodded towards the villagers and then smiled. "He was in their world, but not of it. Now both have been brought together, and all things," she waved her hand towards the tumbled heap of stone behind them, "have been made as they really are at last."_

_A grunt came from Carvaca's right as Devon finally pushed his way to the front. "'Twould explain things – like you lot appearing outa' thin air when th' quakes hit," he said, "That witch did cut us off, but 'twasn't quite as we thought."_

_There was stunned silence as everyone gathered tried to make sense of these revelations. Had it been the island that had disappeared after all? Did this mean that _they_ themselves had vanished – seemingly lost to the world? A settlement gone without a trace, relatives, friends, trading partners from the Seven Islands left wondering what had become of them. Separation and loss on both sides, the island and the outside world, with silence and sorcery dividing them. _

_Carvaca pondered for a moment, a quiet awe stealing over her as she hesitated before finally giving voice to her conclusions. "So her magic was destroyed and our doom lifted," she whispered, her eyes going to the motionless form of the knight, seeing his brokenness and sacrifice for what it was – harbinger of their liberty. "He did as we hoped – Sir Peter defeated the Lady."_

_A muttering of conversation arose again, but this time the air was full of shock, disbelief, and something akin to a wild hope. Neighbor looked to neighbor, husband to wife, parents to wide-eyed children. Was it even possible? Dare they imagine? The concept was so enormous; it took one's breath away. Carvaca could hardly bring herself to wonder if they at last were _free_. Free. It was a huge word, full of portent and intoxicating joy – frightening and weighty. _

_The stranger smiled, a narrow flexing of the lips that managed to convey a fierce, burning pride. "Madam, the circumstances certainly lead one to that conclusion."_

"_How d'ye know him?" asked Harriah, "Ye said he was yer own."_

_Another smile, this time echoed by the young women, and even, somehow, by the animals. The effect was startling – love, happiness, deep affection reflected from all faces – the smooth and the furry, the familiar and the alien. The young man drew himself up slightly. _

"_You might say that, good woman." He paused. "The man you know as Sir Peter is our brother – and our king."_

* * *

Brother. King. 

Carvaca couldn't help but replay the last bit of memory again as she watched the youngest queen – Lucy, she thought it was – throw herself joyfully into Sir Peter's arms. He folded her tightly against him, and they both wept.

_Brother_. _King_.

Even now, after the passage of an entire day and a half, she was still having difficulty wrapping her mind around the reality that she and her neighbors were free at last. Learning this lost knight was in fact a king – and not just any king, but _High_ King of a land, which until recently had been synonymous with forever-winter – was simply the last straw. She wasn't at all certain which revelation came as the bigger surprise, but she knew for certain which one caused her the most consternation.

Every time her disloyal memory brought to mind the casual familiarity of her addresses towards Sir – _King_ Peter, she found herself blushing with complete embarrassment. Though her rational self whispered she had no way of knowing his identity and should not berate herself, this bit of common sense could not quell the frequent remembrances. _…you shouldn't have been able to get here, either, by rights…be mindful of the moss on the bark…being shipwrecked does nothing for one's looks… _She felt her face growing hot again and was glad all eyes present were focused on their majesties.

After a moment, brother and sister drew apart. "Thank you, Lu," he whispered at last, brushing a flyaway strand of hair back from her face, "You're a hero, _my_ hero, now and always."

"No, Peter," she said, kissing him on the cheek and then looking at him with bright, shining eyes and a brilliant smile, "It's Aslan you should thank – he restored you to us."

He nodded solemnly. "I do," he said, "With everything in me."

A tingle ran down Carvaca's spine with these words, although she wasn't quite sure why they should have affected her so. They brought her hope, happiness, contentment – all at once. She shook herself slightly and glanced down to Muriel, who had stopped wiggling with shy anticipation and stood as still as a statue, her ears perked – listening, listening.

A joyful hush fell for one heartbeat – two, and then the beautiful eldest sister, who had been standing to Carvaca's left, broke it with a murmur. "Come now, Lucy," she reprimanded mildly, "You are not the only one wanting to greet our brother."

With a hasty apology, Queen Lucy stepped aside to let her older sister take her place at the bedside. Queen Susan observed the king quietly for a few moments, and he returned her gaze. Neither of them said anything aloud, and Carvaca sensed they had no need of words at the moment. Here were two people who understood one another very well; who, whenever needed, bolstered flagging strength and courage or offered gentle correction and advice – both when it was welcomed and when it was not.

It was King Peter who finally broke their silence. He reached forward and clasped her hand, bringing it to his bearded cheek. "Susan," he said, looking up at her, "Are you well?"

She inhaled deeply, and Carvaca knew somehow the question carried with it more than a simple inquiry into her health. "I am recovering, Peter," the queen said softly, and her brother's fingers tightened around hers, a hardness coming into his face that sent a frisson of fear through the watching village woman. She had seen him incredibly stern before, when quelling the near-riot of her neighbors beside the river, but this utterly merciless expression bespoke another facet of his character.

This realization reminded her of a different consideration, one she had been turning over in her mind during the last day, and she sucked in a quick breath. Her neighbors. Would they be subjected to his wrath for their ungenerous words and deeds? If she had been innocently forward, they – including her husband – had been downright hostile. Certainly, the king's anger would be more than justified, and he would be within his right to issue a severe punishment for such disrespect and ill-will. Would he do so? Carvaca felt the knot of worry settle even deeper in her stomach but was distracted from brooding by King Peter speaking.

"If you wish me to exact vengeance upon the Tisroc for letting his knavish issue even contemplate setting foot in Narnia, I will do so, sister," he said intently, "You have only to say the word."

"You honor me with your concern, brother," Queen Susan replied, "Truly, I would give my permission with a will if Prince Rabadash had not yet been punished for his misdeed, for Narnia must suffer no slight. However," and here she paused, a genuine smile creeping across her face, heightening her beauty into something simple and yet sublime. "From what I hear, Aslan himself intervened to pass judgment, one without bloodshed – as yours would of necessity be – and one far better suited to the nature of the crime."

King Edmund, leaning against the door frame behind them, chuckled at this, prompting a slightly disapproving look from Queen Lucy, but the older two gave no sign they heard. King Peter dropped a respectful kiss to his sister's hand. "Very well," he said, "I do confess, I am relieved. Two campaigns in short succession would be somewhat wearing."

"On us all," Queen Susan replied rather wryly, and her younger brother snorted softly in assent. "But let us save this discourse for another time and place. Now is the time for rejoicing." She paused and eyed him primly, a laugh rising in her dark blue eyes that did not quite reach her lips. "And for haircutting. You've let it go rather too long, my lord."

At this, King Edmund threw his head back and laughed unreservedly, a rolling, joyful sound. Queen Lucy's face split in a beaming grin of amusement, and King Peter scratched sheepishly at his beard. "Yes, Mum," he said obediently, although Carvaca could see his eyes twinkling.

Queen Susan gave him one last smile and then moved back and aside, leaving plenty of room for Carvaca to step forward. As King Peter looked to her, she tried to quell the nervous pitching of her stomach. For goodness' sake, what was wrong with her? Why was she frightened? For a moment, she stared at him awkwardly, and then, her hand giving Muriel's neck a gentle squeeze, she dipped in what she hoped was a passable curtsey. Fortunately, Muriel lived for such things, and impeccably, she followed her mother's lead.

"Madam," the king said, "The task set for me has been completed, and you and your fellows are now free. Presumably," he added with a wry smile. "I do not know yet whether anyone has tried to leave."

Carvaca kept her head lowered, her gaze pinned to the hard-packed dirt of the floor. "Your majesty," she began, feeling her face flaming warmer, cursing the tremor of discomfiture in her tone. "Please, sire…"

"You needn't bow and scrape," he responded kindly, "and you must not cherish any shame. I kept my own council regarding the extent of my station and title, and I do not lay any blame upon you for your conduct."

"And the others?" she asked quietly, and there was a slight pause.

"I believe I mentioned I would not forget your kindness," he answered carefully, and she did not miss his meaning.

Carvaca glanced up to meet his level gaze. "Then for my sake, sire, I ask you pardon these people and look upon us with favor once more."

He nodded. "It shall be done."

"Oh, sir!" came Muriel's voice, as if she couldn't hold herself in check any longer. "Your majesty," she added hastily, dropping another hurried curtsey. "You kept my doll," she finished bashfully, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. "Did it help?"

King Peter was smiling. "Yes," he replied, "and, lady, I thank you from the depths of my heart. Your gift was well given, and I will treasure it."

Muriel squirmed for a moment with pure delight. "Are you better?" she asked, "Did the fairy lady hurt you much?"

"I am recovering splendidly, lady," he said, "and nothing I endured would keep me from walking the same path a second time. Come," he said, sitting a bit straighter on the pallet and holding out his hand to the little girl, who hesitated and sought confirmation from her mother before happily placing her tiny hand in the king's much larger one.

He carefully turned her to face those gathered and then indicated the two queens. "Lady fair, let me make known to you my royal sisters. This is Queen Susan the Gentle," with a kindly bemused smile, the queen inclined her head, "and Queen Lucy the Valiant."

"We have met the Lady Muriel," said Queen Lucy with a golden trill of laughter as she also inclined her head to the little girl, "While you were sleeping, Peter. But thank you for making the introductions official."

"And also," King Peter continued rather loudly, as if he hadn't heard her teasing, "My royal brother, King Edmund the Just."

The tall young man beside the door nodded and winked at her. "Would you like to give the magnificent one his surprise now?" he asked, his hand moving to the latch. He threw a narrow, mirthful glance in the older king's direction, quirking his eyebrows slightly.

Muriel giggled. "Mama, may we?" she asked, and Carvaca, feeling a pang of sympathy for King Peter at what was to come, slowly nodded. Queen Lucy darted forward, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, and stood on the other side of the door.

"I'll have you know, Peter," she said, nearly breathless with imprisoned laughter, "This was not my idea."

The king's face was a mask of pure dread, and he eyed his brother warily. "Very well, Ed," he said resignedly, "Let's have it, and have it over, whatever it is."

King Edmund grinned and threw open the door, while Queen Lucy put her fingers to her mouth and whistled, a piercing sound that made King Peter slump back against the wall with his hands over his face. "Oh, sweet Lion," he moaned, "First gruel, now this? What have I done?"

"You've simply been yourself, Peter," said King Edmund, as right on cue, three very excited Talking Squirrels bounded through the doorway, each bearing in their tiny arms and stuffed cheeks heaps of the finest nuts Murano had to offer. "Nothing but the best for you, my lord."

Queen Susan prudently stood back and out of the way.

Muriel and Queen Lucy enthusiastically helped the squirrels with their mission.

And while King Edmund laughed heartily, his face alight with glee, High King Peter merely smiled and oh, so graciously accepted his gift.


	34. Epilogue Ominous

_But Lancelot mused a little space;  
He said, 'She has a lovely face;  
God in His mercy lend her grace,  
The Lady of Shalott.'  
+ The Lady of Shalott_, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, lines 168-71

_Epilogue – Ominous_

_Forlorn, bereft, lost, fallen – surrounded by the might of Narnia, he was unbearably alone. Even in sleep, ensconced within the rough embrace of his campaign, he felt a familiar creeping touch of dread. There was a muted rattle as his inhalation caught in his throat._

'_How can this be, my champion? What have you done to me? What have you _done_?' _

_Her voice came to him then, taunting, no longer afraid, without panic, and he knew the source of his fear. He thrashed, desiring more than anything to escape, to put away the images of her beauty, of her coming to him in darkness, of him taking her viciously and without mercy _– _smoke and blood and fire – just as she'd wanted, just as _he'd_ wanted. _

_He moaned again, whispering, whimpering, pleading. Please, no more. Aslan… _

No_. Calling upon the Great Lion buoyed him. He couldn't – he _wouldn't_ – he was a knight and a king – a king, a _king_ – and he would resist and remain strong, and…_

'_Your doom has come upon you.' _

_Softly, she smiled._

… _and – he couldn't breathe, suddenly he couldn't breathe, for __the blow of a giant's war club had crushed his chest, and__ he was suffocating, drowning in his own blood, dying. The world around him faded, __graying into a horrible shade, dirty-white and foggy. He fought, straining through his agony for breath, the pressure inexorable and the pain unbelievable._

_He knew his lips moved as he struggled to speak, but the words circling in and around him were not of final wisdom or parting command. Can't breathe, can't breathe_, _**can't breathe**_**, can't breathe**, **can't breathe**…


End file.
